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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29616105">Murder on the Venetian Express</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/libraryv/pseuds/libraryv'>libraryv</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/pseuds/LulaIsAKitten'>LulaIsAKitten</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Case Fic, Cormoran Strike in Braces, F/M, Murder Mystery, Parrotage, Pining, Secret Identities, Secrets, Trains, ratings change as things pick up steam</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 05:41:45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>42,792</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29616105</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/libraryv/pseuds/libraryv, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/pseuds/LulaIsAKitten</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>606</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>255</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. A New Case</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Strike looked up from his file at the sound of a tap on the inner office door. The knock was for politeness only; Pat, the agency secretary, was already advancing into the room. Robin’s half of their shared desk stood empty. His business partner was out tailing Redhead again.</p>
<p>His hopeful glance registered that Pat wasn’t bearing a fresh mug of tea. It had only been an hour since the last one, and she had never mastered tea-drinking in the quantities that Strike and Robin had grown accustomed to over their years working together. The secretary seemed to find two mugs a day, morning and afternoon, perfectly ample, and this afternoon’s had already been drunk. Robin would have made another round by now if she were here.</p>
<p>“What can I do for you?” Strike asked, sitting back in his chair.</p>
<p>“We’ve had a call, a new client,” the secretary replied in her rasping voice.</p>
<p>Strike frowned. “There’s a waiting list.”</p>
<p>“I know,” Pat replied. “I told him that. But he wouldn’t take no for an answer. He said he knows you, and you’d want to take the job. And he said he’d pay ‘handsomely’ - his word, not mine.” She rolled her eyes, indicating the impatience with which she had received such assurances. “Anyway, I had to promise him I’d pass the message on straightaway just to get him off the phone.”</p>
<p>“Duly noted,” Strike said drily. “What’s his name?”</p>
<p>“Richard Waugh. Said you’d remember him as Rich.”</p>
<p>Strike’s brows knit. He knew the name, and he knew he hadn’t heard it in a long time.</p>
<p>“Said he was at school with you,” Pat supplied.</p>
<p>The penny dropped. Strike did indeed remember Rich, a slim, nondescript guy from his Hackney comprehensive. They’d lost touch after going to different universities, and then of course Strike had joined the Army... He remembered Rich as shy and diffident, with mousy hair, and was briefly intrigued to discover in what capacity his detective services could he required. The mild-mannered young man he remembered didn’t seem the sort to be involved in intrigue or espionage.</p>
<p>Strike sighed a little inwardly. He and Robin had agreed ruefully just the other day that tailing unfaithful spouses was becoming quite tedious, even if it did pay the bills.</p>
<p>“Stick him on the waiting list,” he said dismissively, his thoughts already turning back to the case in front of him.</p>
<p>Pat folded her arms across her chest, and Strike suppressed another inner sigh. He knew that posture. He wasn’t going to get away with ignoring this call so easily.</p>
<p>“He said the job he needs you for is in two weeks,” she said firmly. “The waiting list is longer than that.”</p>
<p>Strike looked at her, and briefly pondered resisting before deciding that a five-minute phone call would use up less of his time and energy than a disagreement with Pat and the subsequent fallout.</p>
<p>“Okay, email me his number,” he said, a little ungraciously.</p>
<p>“I already did. It’s in your inbox.” Strike tried to pretend he hadn’t heard a slight note of triumph in their secretary’s voice as she turned back towards the outer office. Pat must also have been aware that she had won with perhaps more glee than was strictly necessary, for she added over her shoulder, “I’ll put the kettle on.”</p>
<p>Feeling slightly mollified, Strike clicked to call up his emails and reached for the phone.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Passenger List</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Like the Orient Express?” Robin asked, setting her glass down untouched.</p><p>Strike grinned. He could see he’d caught her interest. She’d already been intrigued at his suggestion of a Tuesday evening pint, a jaunt that was out of the ordinary even for their new-found relaxed friendship. They did go for the occasional drink together if they were working a case together and the opportunity presented itself. Sometimes they met up on a Friday, if they hadn’t seen one another all week, and told themselves it was a necessity to catch up on work and their varying caseloads. </p><p>A weeknight invitation was unusual, though, and Strike had smiled to himself as he sensed Robin’s burning curiosity on their stroll down to the Tottenham, his measured steps making sure he had time to finish his cigarette before they got there, the collar of his coat turned up against the windy evening.</p><p>“Yeah, kind of,” he replied now, and took a sip of his pint. The Tottenham was relatively quiet, though the after-work drinkers were around most nights of the week. “Rich was always into trains as a kid, he said, and decided to combine his business acumen with his childhood hobby. He’s run various routes across Europe, mostly starting and finishing in London.” </p><p>He took another sip. “He used to hire the trains, but he’s recently pushed the boat out - if you’ll pardon the unintentional metaphor - and bought his own and done it up. He specialises in the journey itself, not just reaching the destination - slow and luxurious, he said. Takes a week to get to Italy, when modern trains can make the journey in like 20 hours.”</p><p>“They wouldn’t want to be stuck behind him, then,” pointed out Robin, smiling.</p><p>Strike nodded. “I said as much, and promptly regretted it.” He chuckled a little, remembering. “I was treated to what I think he considered was a brief description of all the many and varying old routes he’s researched and put together. The idea is to make the journey the holiday, so he picks the routes that are the most scenic even if they’re miles out of the way.”</p><p>“Sounds idyllic,” Robin said a little dreamily, finally starting her wine. “But why would he need us?”</p><p>“Well,” Strike began, and Robin grinned to see his eyes light up. It was a unique case, and she could already see he was relishing the opportunity to stretch his skill set. He laid a large hand on the table and leaned in a bit closer. Robin mirrored him, shamelessly taking the chance to look into his eyes as he spoke. </p><p>“He’s taken quite the financial gamble - buying the train and doing it up and kitting it out has cost him an absolutely stonking amount of money - and he really needs the first few trips to go well. He’s aimed at the high end of the market, the super rich, and you know they’re all barking mad.”</p><p>Robin laughed a little and nodded.</p><p>“So anyway, he’s booked his first trip in a couple of weeks, London to Venice. It’s kind of a trial run, so he’s keeping initial numbers small. He’s sold most of the tickets to various fabulously wealthy types. It’s meant to be a real luxury, and all inclusive, so all their meals, themed evenings and so on. A trip costs thousands.”</p><p>Robin blew out her cheeks, thinking not for the first time how upside down the world was, that some people had that kind of money to spend on a luxury holiday while others didn’t have a roof over their heads.</p><p>“And,” Strike went on, lowering his voice, “then things got weird.”</p><p>“Weird how?”</p><p>“He’s been getting anonymous letters to the business address.”</p><p>“What kind of letters? Threats?”</p><p>Strike pulled a face. “Not exactly. He wasn’t very clear, we’d need to see them. But he said they were more warnings, or odd sentences. Watch out who you’re associating with, that kind of thing.”</p><p>“Does he have a business partner? Investors?” Robin frowned, turning the idea over in her head.</p><p>“No partner, he said. There could be investors, but they wouldn’t necessarily be public knowledge.”</p><p>“So he thinks it’s about his choice of clientele?”</p><p>“Maybe, yeah.”</p><p>Robin sat back. “So where do we come in?”</p><p>Strike grinned. “He wants us on the train for that first journey.”</p><p>Robin’s eyes grew round. “Why? What could we do?”</p><p>Strike shot her a fond look that made her cheeks pinken a little. Not for the first time, he marvelled that Robin never failed to ask the questions that he himself first went to. Her natural aptitude for the job was only growing with the training she’d received and the confidence gained from their successes and her personal triumphs.</p><p>“Mostly keep an eye on things. Dig into the background of the guy and his family and so on, try to work out who might have a grudge against them. But mostly for peace of mind, I think. He can’t afford to have his maiden journey go anything less than perfectly.”</p><p>Robin nodded. </p><p>“Makes sense.” </p><p>Strike looked out the window, thinking. He took a swallow of beer, thoughtfully licking the foam from his lips, oblivious to Robin tracking the action. </p><p>“There’s something else,” he said, switching his gaze back to hers, misreading her suddenly flushed cheeks as excitement. </p><p>“I think we ought to pretend not to know each other.”</p><p>She caught on, as he knew she would. </p><p>“Because you know Waugh. So if people think I don’t know <em> you</em>, I can earn trust where you couldn’t. The staff might open up to me more about possible grudges, and I can dig a bit.”</p><p>He nodded. </p><p>“Exactly.”</p><p>She looked at him, then gave a sudden, bright smile. </p><p>“It’d be quite fun, wouldn’t it? To tackle something like this? Almost like a working holiday.”</p><p>“Here’s hoping.” He leaned back in his seat.</p><p>“London to Venice. One week to figure out who’s writing Waugh the threatening letters.”</p><p>Robin grinned, and picked up her wine glass.</p><p>“What could possibly go wrong?”</p><p>
  <em><strong>..one week later…</strong></em>
</p><p>“You’re what?” Strike lowered his still-full pint, from which he had been about to take a welcome gulp, back down a little.</p><p>Nick grinned, pleased to have surprised his old friend. “We’re coming too.”</p><p>Robin looked across at Ilsa, sat beside her husband on the other side of the pub table, brimming with barely concealed excitement. “How come?”</p><p>“Rich rang me,” Nick explained, as Strike finally took a drink and then set his glass down properly. “We’ve kept in touch since school - really just down to Christmas cards in the last few years - and he wanted your number, for the case. He told me a bit about it.”</p><p>Strike frowned. “We’re in the phone book. We even have a website now, of sorts - Spanner insisted.”</p><p>“He would,” Nick replied, smiling. “But yeah, Rich just wanted to know if this was the sort of thing you’d take on, if we were still in touch and so on. He wasn’t sure whether it was worth looking into, I think, wondered if he was overreacting. Anyway, long story short, there’s plenty of empty cabins on this first voyage, and he offered one to us at cost, and, well, we haven’t splashed out on a big holiday in a while, and it’s our wedding anniversary coming up, so…”</p><p>“Those cabins can be quite cosy,” mused Ilsa with a sly look, and Robin took a sip of her wine, hiding her face in her glass for a moment. It wouldn’t do to give away that her own mind had swiftly gone down the same route, imagining herself wrapped up in bed in a compact cabin, knowing Strike was right on the other side of the wall. That she had actually begun to wonder if this trip might present her with an opportunity, away from the office and their busy working schedules, to perhaps try to ascertain whether the growing closeness she sensed between herself and her burly partner might lead anywhere. The night they’d agreed to take the case, she’d laid in bed imagining them solving the matter of the letters, trading secrets in hushed conversations, pressed together in narrow hallways. Dining in the restaurant car together as the beautiful scenery blurred by. Retiring to the lounge car with its panoramic glass roof (she’d pored over the brochure Waugh had given Strike) to sip whisky and admire the stars...</p><p>She pulled her attention back to the moment. “I should think they’re quite small,” she teased, and Ilsa grinned shamelessly.</p><p>“Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” she replied cheekily, casting her husband another sly smile, and Strike rolled his eyes.</p><p>“Some of us will be working,” he noted drily. </p><p>He looked over at Robin, who grinned at him from over the rim of her wine glass. An answering warmth stirred in his chest, and he found himself wondering if they might have a chance, on this case, to spend some quality time together. They could sneak  away from work, to see if, maybe…</p><p>“It won’t all be work, though, right?” Ilsa asked, leaning over to look at the menu Nick had taken from the stand on the window end of the table and was perusing. “Good plan, I’m hungry. You’ll be able to do the murder mystery night and so on?” she added, glancing up at Strike and Robin. She giggled at the look on her old friend’s face.</p><p>“The what?” Strike asked.</p><p>Robin laughed. “Did you not read the brochure before you gave it to me?”</p><p>Strike shrugged. “Not all of it. I took a picture of the layout of the train to memorise so we’d know our way around. The entertainment won’t be anything to do with us, will it?”</p><p>“It will be if we’re undercover. We’ll have to join in,” Robin retorted, and Strike sighed.</p><p>“Okay, then, what have I let myself in for?”</p><p>Nick chuckled. “You asked for it, mate,” he said ruefully. “I think Ilsa has memorised the itinerary. We’re dressing up for the murder mystery night, I’m told.” He winked. “Got your braces and brogues ready?”</p><p>“Braces?”</p><p>Robin nodded eagerly. “It’s 1930s themed. Because of <em>Murder on the Orient Express</em>.”</p><p>Strike raised his brows. “They’re really doing a murder mystery evening about a murder on a train, on a train.”</p><p>Ilsa laughed. “Why not? Robin, there’s a vintage clothes shop near Carnaby Street we need to try, check out the flapper dresses and feather boas.”</p><p>Strike registered his partner’s delighted gasp and the clapping of her hands next to him, and resigned himself to the fact that he, too, would be dressing up. Still, as he sat back and watched Robin’s eyes sparkle and her face light up with excitement, and pictured her in a sultry, sparkling flapper dress that hugged her curves, he could admit that the prospect of a themed trip had its advantages. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Just the Ticket</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The international terminal at St Pancras station was bustling. Passengers waited grouped along the platforms, or rushed past, laden with bags. Everyday commuters and crew members hustled past importantly, and a couple stood poring over their mobile phones, a guidebook clutched in the woman's hand.</p><p>Strike, standing alone and apart, watched surreptitiously for fellow passengers. A shiny new wheeled suitcase stood next to him with a suit carrier laid carefully across it. The carrier contained what he considered to be a rather ridiculous evening outfit, the case a couple of spare shirts and, at his own grumpy insistence, some normal trousers. He was wearing his Italian suit, his shirt loosely buttoned and a tie in his pocket just in case. His travelling companions had insisted that his normal wear of slacks and jumpers wouldn’t do for this trip.</p><p>He was pretending to vaguely study the departure board when he spotted a woman in a smart trench coat approach. She came to a stop some distance away from him and gave him a wink, disguised with a disinterested, passing nod. </p><p>Strike’s pulse picked up in appreciation as he recognized the clever, dark eyes, and brown hair of Ms. Venetia Hall. She was ignoring him now, casting an imperious glance around, and Strike suddenly found himself hoping he’d be able to spend some time with her while she was in character. He had fond memories of the haughty, RP accent that he’d heard her employ over the phone when ringing in to the Houses of Parliament during the Chiswell Case. The commanding note in her tone had sent a frisson of something skittering down his spine, something he’d been quite determined to ignore at the time. He was more at liberty to enjoy her disguises these days.</p><p>He wasn’t surprised to see a smartly liveried young man approach her. A brief exchange ensued that Strike was too far away to hear, and then the young man took Robin’s case and attentively escorted her to a private lounge across the platform, through whose plate glass windows Strike could see comfortable seating and a table laid with tea and coffee.</p><p>Well. No one was pouncing on <i>him</i> and offering him comfy seats and complimentary drinks.</p><p>He looked up, interested by the approach of a short, stolid older lady marching towards the lounge as though she knew exactly where she was going. A taller, younger woman trotted in her wake, carrying a few small shopping bags bearing various of London’s more illustrious names - Harrods, Liberty, and Strike was sure he even spotted a Vashti logo. Following in their wake was another porter pushing a trolley on which rested two cases that were far larger than one could possibly need for a week’s holiday, Strike was sure, and a large object balanced on top that the porter was carefully holding in place with one hand and that was covered in a huge cloth that almost looked like some kind of velvet tablecloth.</p><p>Strike’s attention was subsequently pulled from this anachronistic tableau by the arrival of Nick and Ilsa, Nick effortlessly casual as ever in a light-coloured suit Strike hadn’t seen before and strongly suspected had been bought for this trip, and Ilsa in a royal blue dress with puffed sleeves and a cinched-in waist, with a matching pill-box hat. Strike resisted the urge to roll his eyes. The Herberts had clearly decided to go all out on the theme.</p><p>Suddenly he was wondering what Venetia Hall was wearing underneath that trenchcoat. He knew Robin and Ilsa had gone shopping together, and there had been much texting and giggling back and forth between them.</p><p>“Mr Strike,” Ilsa said formally, offering him a hand which was, Strike noted with amusement, encased in a white glove. He took it and pressed her fingers fondly, bending to kiss her cheek and then turning to shake Nick’s hand.</p><p>“Herberts,” he replied. “Are we to endure a whole week of this?”</p><p>“Why, of course,” Ilsa replied, parking her suitcase. “One has to embrace the experience.”</p><p>“Does one?” Strike replied with a sardonic raise of one eyebrow, and Nick snorted.</p><p>“Let the girls have their fun,” he said mildly. “All we have to do is lounge around in the bar. I brought cigars,” he added, patting his breast pocket.</p><p>“Good man,” Strike said approvingly.</p><p>“Ooh, Robin’s got champagne!” Ilsa cried, spotting the first-class lounge.</p><p><i>Of course she has</i>, Strike thought, remembering the young man fluttering around Ms Hall. Robin could probably have anything she wanted right now.</p><p>“Dr Herbert, I believe I want champagne,” his wife declared, and Nick grinned amiably and took her case.</p><p>“Yes, dear.” The resigned glance he cast back over his shoulder as he followed her clicking heels across the platform made Strike laugh; he picked up the handle of his suitcase and followed them.</p><p>Inside the first class lounge, Robin had chosen a seat to one side and was sipping her champagne and flicking through her phone, keeping herself to herself. The older lady was doing precisely the opposite, clearly used to being, and enjoying being, the centre of attention. Her companion had fetched champagne and was hovering with two glasses while her older friend fussed around with the trolley and cases that she had insisted the porter manoeuvre through the door into the lounge itself.</p><p>Skirting around this small but growing circus, Strike went to help himself to a drink. He was delighted to see that Scotch was on offer for those who didn’t favour champagne, and it was a good brand. He accepted a small measure, and went to sit a couple of seats over from Robin at the quieter end of the room. He, too, took out his phone and pretended to scroll through it.</p><p>“All set?” he murmured.</p><p>“Yup,” she replied in a similarly low voice. Strike experienced a flare of delight as he recognized the hint of Venetia Hall’s refined tone. Her legs were crossed and the side of her coat had fallen away a little, revealing a line of forest green hem. Strike suddenly hoped she’d emulated Ilsa and dressed for the period. He couldn’t help thinking it would look rather sexy on her tall figure.</p><p>“Hugo needs air!” Their older travelling companion’s voice was imperious. She was ordering the porter about now, and her voice carried clearly across the whole room. “He’s got a very delicate constitution, and I was assured by his doctor that a trip to the south of Europe would do him wonders. It’s where he’s originally from.”</p><p>“Who’s Hugo?” muttered Robin, glancing around. There was no sign of any other male passengers yet, just the Herberts and the two women.</p><p>“Now, Gwendoline, I’m sure he’s fine,” her companion began.</p><p>Gwendoline drew herself up to her full height, which must have been all of five foot one. “It’s not good for him to be constricted, Felicity,” she snapped. “Remove that,” she ordered the porter, waving at the large object on top of the cases.</p><p>With infinite patience, the porter pulled the velvet drape away to reveal a large bird cage containing the most beautiful parrot Robin had ever seen, large and shimmering blue, its beady eyes searching its newly revealed surroundings. It spread its wings and gave a loud squawk of triumph at being able to see again.</p><p>“Oh, wow,” Ilsa exclaimed, stepping closer for a look. “That’s gorgeous. What’s its name?”</p><p>“<i>His</i> name is Hugo Mountjoy the Third,” Gwendoline retorted. “And he’s not well, he needs to take the air in Italy.”</p><p>Robin didn’t think she’d ever seen such a hearty-looking parrot. She risked a sideways glance at Strike and dissolved into giggles at the look of mingled horror and disbelief on his face.</p><p>“What. The. Actual. Fuck.” Strike murmured under his breath. “Is that thing coming with us?”</p><p>“I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s got his own cabin,” Robin replied.</p><p>“Christ,” Strike muttered darkly. “A train journey with a bloody great bird.”</p><p>Before Robin could reply, the bird lifted its shoulders slightly, opened its beak, and emitted a shrill squawk. </p><p>“Oh!” Ilsa took a giant step back, and Sir Hugo fixed his beady eyes on her before opening his beak again. </p><p>“<i>Squawk!</i> Charlie! <i>Squawk!</i> Charlie!”</p><p>“Did he say, ‘Charlie?’” Nick wondered aloud, and Gwendoline looked at him with an expression not unlike her parrot’s. </p><p>“Of course he did,” she sniffed. “Charlie is the name of my beloved Highland Terrier, who couldn’t accompany us. Clearly, Sir Hugo misses him. He’s the most perceptive parrot I’ve ever met.”</p><p>Strike met Robin’s eyes; she turned to the side, lips pressed firmly together against a threatening burst of laughter. He grinned.</p><p>Suddenly, a whistle was heard and a ripple of excitement ran through the waiting lounge. All eyes were drawn to the window as the train rolled into the station.</p><p>Even Strike would have to admit to being impressed. The old-fashioned coaches were liveried in black and ivory with gold-coloured trim and <i>Venetian Express</i> picked out in relief lettering above the windows. The first few carriages revealed glimpses through into slim corridors divided into wood-panelled walls and narrow compartment doors. Then the dining car rolled past, each window revealing a table with an ornate gold lamp at each one and starched white curtains neatly tied back. As the stock slowly drew to a halt, what now sat at the middle of the platform was clearly the lounge car, and they could see elegant sofas and the domed glass roof above letting in the light.</p><p>The low “wow” from Robin next to him was echoed in the delight on Ilsa’s face. The lounge passengers began to make their way out to the platform to join the others who were assembling ready to board. Strike stood there, watching Ilsa take Nick’s arm as they made their way towards the train that would be their home for the next week, and wished that he could have Robin on his arm for this moment.</p><p><i>What else is new?</i> he asked himself ruefully as he made his solitary way along behind them and moved to stand well away from his partner, trying not to watch the back view of her as she clicked a few steps along the platform. There was a neat stripe up the back of each of her calves, disappearing under her coat, and he wondered if she was wearing stockings, a thought that he only allowed headroom for a few delicious seconds before hurriedly turning his attention back to the train. Waugh was stepping down from the bar carriage, a broad smile on his face, to welcome his new passengers, and station porters bustled about taking cases and starting to wheel them along the platform to the right carriages.</p><p>Robin had wandered to stand near a far door; she was greeted by another man, possibly a concierge, Strike thought, someone else who was very attentive to the attractive young woman travelling alone, and she was soon escorted onto the train, settled at a table and bought another drink.</p><p>Again, he forced his attention away from her. He was going to have to do a lot of that in the coming week.</p><p>“Right. Let’s get this party started,” Strike muttered to himself under his breath, and strode forward to greet Waugh.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. All Aboard</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The time ticked by, and Robin sat back in her seat in the lounge car and watched as more people filtered in. A waiter in coat and tails was making the rounds with a tray of hors d'oeuvres, and Robin took a delightful-looking concoction and popped it into her mouth. Some kind of pastry and cheese; warm and flaky and absolutely perfect. </span>
</p><p>She looked over and saw Strike pretending to be perusing his phone again but idly surveying the scene as well. She was happy to see him in his suit, close-shaven and his hair freshly cut. He looked the part, handsome and relaxed. A frisson of excitement ran through her as she wondered what had been in the suit carrier draped over his suitcase. Ilsa had told her she’d dispatched the men to hire proper formal evening wear, and she had to admit the thought of her burly partner in a tux was rather delicious. </p><p>Strike glanced up and caught her watching him, and he grinned. She returned it, feeling utterly happy and light. This was going to be a good trip. </p><p>She spotted Waugh milling around, smiling and shaking hands and exuding nervous, restless energy. He caught her eye, his brows furrowing, and Robin felt a flare of triumphant excitement. They had met the week prior, but he hadn’t yet seen her as Ms Venetia Hall. </p><p>A middle-aged, friendly looking couple arrived, pointing and exclaiming at various details of the surroundings. Then a young man about Robin’s age boarded; he was casually dressed in chinos, T-shirt and a blazer, but still managed to look just as stylish as the rest of them. He took off his sunglasses and hooked them on his shirt, looking around the space, shaking Waugh’s proffered hand with an easy grin that revealed attractive dimples.</p><p>Robin got up, aware of Strike’s eyes following her, and left the first class compartment. She walked through the sliding doors and down the carpeted hall, checking door letters until she saw the one that belonged to her.</p><p>Cabin C.</p><p>She swiped her key card and opened the door. The cabin was snug but clean; the wooden accents gleamed with polish. A small sofa was against one wall which Robin knew would later be converted into a bed. Inside the cabin was a young woman in her early twenties, dressed in the smart black trousers and shirt that made up the uniform of the crew. She was tugging a pillow into a fresh pillow case. </p><p>She looked up.</p><p>“Oh, I’m sorry, miss! Just finishing up.” She straightened, nervously tugging on her dark ponytail.</p><p>“No hurry.” Robin smiled at her. “Thank you.” She noticed a pendant sparkling against the girl’s black shirt; a tiny gold stallion.</p><p>“I have a pendant just like that,” Robin said warmly. “I rode so much as a girl; I love horses.”</p><p>“Me too! They’re so smart, I wish more people understood how amazing they are!” the girl burst out, then blushed, smiling. “I had a job volunteering at the riding school in the next village. I would muck out the stables and sometimes they let me ride for free.”</p><p>“That’s lovely. I had a favourite at my barn, a Cleveland named Lacey.”</p><p>“Clevelands are so gorgeous!” beamed the young woman, then, seeming to remember where she was, gave her ponytail another tug before tucking the pillow into the corner of the sofa.</p><p>“Your cabin should be all ready, so let me know if you need anything, miss.”</p><p>“Oh, please call me Venetia.”</p><p>“I’m Chloe,” said the girl, and with a last shy nod at Robin, left the cabin. </p><p>A pleasant, silvery bell sound chimed gently through the speaker system, then a gentle voice began speaking.</p><p>
  <em>“Attention, passengers. Mr Richard Waugh and his crew are ready to welcome you in the first-class lounge for a quick introduction, before we begin our journey. Once again, please make your way to the first-class lounge.”</em>
</p><p>Robin took a last look around the cabin, took a deep breath, and left it again, navigating her way back down the hallway to the first-class lounge. </p><p>Most of the other passengers were still there, and some crew members. Strike was leaning against a far wall, his dark hair and height visible from where she stood. </p><p>Robin took the opportunity to do a quick assessment of the passengers while they were all gathered together. There were her and Strike, of course, and the Herberts. Richard Waugh, standing importantly at the front of the car. Gwendoline was seated with her companion Felicity, the humongous parrot in his cage on the table between them. The middle-aged couple were at the next table. The man with the dimples stood in the corner across from Robin. A trim, neatly dressed woman that Robin judged to be about in her fifties was at a table on the other side of the room, grey head bent over her mobile. Five crew members stood lined up just behind Waugh. Chloe was among them; she spotted Robin and gave her a grin. </p><p>
  <span>“Welcome, everyone, to the maiden voyage of the Lady Amelia.” Waugh announced, looking at each of them in turn and smiling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My crew and I will work very hard to make sure that your experience aboard this train is the utmost in luxury, safety and ease. I want your memories of this trip to be synonymous with the word perfection.”</span>
</p><p>There was an excited murmur at this, and Waugh nodded. “We ask only that you follow the rules put in place for our safety; the crew will do a review and a practice emergency drill in two hours. It’s on the schedule; a printed copy of which can be found in each of your cabins, or you can simply download the Waugh Industries App, and search “Venetian Express”.</p><p>Strike met Robin’s eyes and raised his eyebrows in question; she tapped her fingers against her phone in response, and he shook his head with a knowing smile. She’d already downloaded the app and studied the whole schedule. She switched her attention back to Waugh with some reluctance; the fondness on Strike’s face had been hard to look away from. </p><p>“—and please don’t hesitate to ask any of us if you need assistance of any kind.” Waugh clapped his hands together once, and a crew member passed him a champagne bottle. “Without further ado, let’s get started!” </p><p>Waugh twisted the bottle, popping the cork, and the assembled passengers burst into cheers and applause as Waugh tipped the foaming champagne into the glasses that the crew members held at the ready.</p><p>Glasses were passed around, and with a loud whistle and a slight jerk, the train began to move. A ripple of excitement ran through the lounge, a few cheers, and glasses were raised. The journey had begun.</p><p>Robin sipped her champagne and watched idly out of the window as London began to slide past. It was going to be odd, until they had assessed the situation and identified who might have a grudge against Waugh, to be amongst friends but unable to acknowledge them, to have to pretend to be a solitary traveller, happy in her own company.</p><p>“Hi.” The attractive young man in chinos had wandered over to her table. “May I?”</p><p>Robin waved a hand at the seat opposite her, and he sat down, champagne in hand. He extended his other hand across the table to her. “I’m Cameron,” he added.</p><p>Robin smiled graciously, trying to appear welcoming but not too welcoming. She shook his hand. “Venetia,” she replied, and he grinned, his dimples deepening. He had clear blue eyes.</p><p>“You’re kidding,” he said. He had a North American accent. “Venetia, on the Venetian Express, going to Venice,” he teased gently, smiling.</p><p>
  <span>Robin laughed. “Indeed,” she replied. “I nearly booked a different route just to avoid the absurdity, but then I decided I quite liked it.”</span>
</p><p>“Yeah, why not?” he replied warmly. “How often do you get to travel on a train named after you, to the city that you’re named after?”</p><p>“Exactly,” Robin replied, smiling.</p><p>“I’m in England for business,” continued Cameron, although Robin hadn’t asked. He sat back in his seat. “I had a three week break, and I thought, why not see another city? And I’ve always liked trains. This one’s really nice, and I’ve never done the whole, overnight-on-the-Agatha-Christie-express deal, so I figured it’d be fun.”</p><p>Robin nodded as Cameron chatted happily, her eyes wandering over to Chloe. The young woman was deep in conversation with another crew member who Robin guessed from his uniform was the chef; he was leaning towards her, his expression angry, and though Robin couldn’t hear what he was saying, it was clearly a contentious matter. Chloe looked near tears. </p><p>“May I ask about something in my cabin?” called out the grey-haired woman with her mobile, and Robin watched as Chloe extracted herself from her conversation and walked over to the woman, nodding. </p><p>“—so what do you do for work?” Cameron was asking. </p><p>“I’m in between jobs at the moment,” replied Robin, without missing a beat.</p><p>Cameron’s mobile buzzed, and he frowned at the screen, standing up. </p><p>“I’m so sorry - I’ve got to take this.”</p><p>He gave her a last flash of dimples and turned to leave, making his way out. The lounge had mostly emptied, Robin saw, and she waved to the Herberts as they, too, left for their cabin. </p><p>Strike approached, and sat heavily down at the table next to hers. He’d done a lot of standing today, Robin would bet his leg was bothering him. </p><p>“How goes it,” he murmured, tapping at his phone. </p><p>
  <span>“Nothing much to report,” said Robin, carefully looking out the window. “Although I think there’s something going on between two of the crew members, a relationship of some kind, and a bit of something tense. Maybe it was about the letters. I befriended the girl, Chloe, when she was doing up my cabin. Not sure about him, but I’ll find out.”</span>
</p><p>Strike gave a nod, and a quick flash of his eyes to hers revealed his approval.</p><p>“Great work. That’s what we were hoping, that you’d get in with the staff a bit. They’ve stayed away from me.”</p><p>“I think I also made a possible friend from the passenger side of things.”</p><p>“Don’t tell me it’s the woman with the parrot.”</p><p>“No, it’s Cameron.” Robin only just managed to stop herself from saying, “the one with the dimples.” She cleared her throat. “The North American.”</p><p>“The one who couldn’t be bothered to dress up,” replied Strike, gruffly. </p><p>“Well, I think he <em>was</em> dressed up, just a little bit differently. Expensive clothes.”</p><p>“I saw him sharing his life’s story with you,” said Strike. “Good of him.”</p><p>Robin laughed. </p><p>
  <span>“He was just being friendly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll bet,” said Strike, his tone determinedly neutral. He checked his watch. “Safety procedures and the emergency drill in about an hour. I agreed to meet with Waugh before that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I could use a moment to freshen up and write down some observations.”</span>
</p><p>Strike nodded. </p><p>
  <span>“Right.” He risked a wide, encouraging smile at her. “I’ll see you in a bit, then.” Robin smiled back at him, and the moment deepened and held. Robin’s heart sped up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A crew member came in and nodded to them, and began clearing up the empty champagne classes. Strike’s attention turned to the scenery sliding past the window, and Robin stood and left the lounge, making her way to her cabin where she could gather her thoughts. </span><br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Full Steam Ahead</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The following evening Strike was in his cabin, dabbing on aftershave and studying himself in the mirror in a way he hadn’t in years. It was a wearier, more weathered face that looked back at him now; specks of silver could be seen in his stubble if he wasn’t as freshly shaved as he was, and the fine lines around his eyes had deepened. Stress from the job, stress from life; the years had not passed without taking their toll. He stepped back, trying to see the positive, as his Aunt Joan would have. He was trimmer, definitely. A bit more muscle definition from his return to physio and the gym. Better haircuts, lately. He ran a hand down his jaw, turning slightly, and tried to see himself through Robin’s eyes. He no longer pretended to himself that her opinion didn’t matter. </span>
</p>
<p>He hadn’t seen her during the rest of yesterday; he had been busy with Waugh, then spent most of the afternoon in the dining car, chatting with or inconspicuously eavesdropping on the guests that happened to pass through. Dinner had been a lavish affair, and he’d wished he could spend it with her. Instead he’d played third wheel to the Herberts, a role he was well used to fulfilling over the years that had never really bothered him before. They made a good threesome, always had. But he was beginning to suspect (they were neither as subtle nor, frankly, as quiet at night as they clearly thought they were) that his friends were on some kind of second honeymoon.</p>
<p>Robin had been sat with the middle-aged couple, the Joneses, also presumably playing gooseberry, although she seemed to have got along with them quite well. He was keen to know what she thought of them, as they were the passengers who remained an enigma to him so far, being quietly spoken and keeping to themselves. Robin had been wearing a simple navy dress in a flattering cut; timeless, it fit with the period of history this trip was celebrating but wouldn’t have looked out of place in the most modern of London restaurants. It had been hard to concentrate on the Herberts at times, and on one occasion Ilsa had kicked him under the table and given him a knowing wink.</p>
<p>Today had mostly been spent drifting about, listening in to conversations and admiring the passing view of rural France. As Waugh had explained, the early part of the journey was more functional; his dream had been to wind slowly through the Alps, giving the passengers the classic, ever-stunning panorama of mountains and snow to enjoy for as much of the journey as possible. They had just begun to climb this evening; the chatter had started to turn to how beautiful tomorrow’s scenery would be.</p>
<p>And now it was time for the murder mystery evening. He smiled to himself as he did up his cufflinks; it would be fun to tackle a fictional case with Robin and take a break from work. The thought had occurred to him that tonight might be a chance to show off a little. Maybe even a chance to...test the waters with her, a bit. </p>
<p>He gave a last tug on the lapels of his tuxedo jacket, patted his inner pocket with his cigarettes, and headed from his cabin, making sure to flip out the lights.</p>
<p>When Strike got to the lounge, most of the guests were already there. Nick, also in a tux, waved at him, giving him a friendly once-over and a low whistle. </p>
<p>“I forgot how sharp you clean up. Wait ‘til the ladies see you.”</p>
<p>“Are they still getting ready?”</p>
<p>“Yeah.” Nick checked his watch. “You’d think they were getting ready to board a time machine. I reminded Ilsa that the evening was on a tight schedule, but I got waved off, so I just said I’d head here and left them to it.”</p>
<p>Strike grinned, and accepted a tumbler of whisky from a passing waiter. The crew were also dressed in equivalent 1930s clothes. </p>
<p>“You’re all familiar with your character?” Nick asked, also taking a drink and nodding his thanks. </p>
<p>“Yeah.”</p>
<p>“Not the murderer, are you?”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” said Strike, deadpan, and Nick rolled his eyes.</p>
<p>“All right, it was a silly question.” He raised his eyebrows. “But I’ll bet it’s you.”</p>
<p>“Well, I wouldn’t bloody well tell you if I was, would I?” grinned Strike, and Nick laughed. “Ilsa and I have got a bet going, about you and Robin solving tonight’s pretend case.”</p>
<p>“Which side are you favouring?”</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not telling.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Which means you’ve bet against us. Tosser.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The two friends chuckled, and clinked their glasses together before taking a sip. Strike looked around at the other guests, all decked out in 1930s attire. Cameron was there, looking just at ease in a tuxedo as he had been the first day in chinos. He was chatting to the older, solitary lady, whose name Strike had learned was Mary. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gwendoline was there with her companion Felicity, and, Strike noted with mild annoyance, the parrot, which sat placidly in its cage. He squinted.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“For fuck’s sake,” he muttered, and Nick gave him a questioning look. “That bird is wearing a bow tie,” Strike explained, shaking his head, and Nick laughed. </span>
</p>
<p>The doors opened, and the married couple, the Joneses, Strike reminded himself mentally, entered the dining car. Behind them were Robin and Ilsa. </p>
<p>Strike paused with his drink halfway to his mouth.</p>
<p>Robin was wearing a wine-coloured satin flapper dress. It was detailed with jet black beading, making a dramatic contrast with the creamy skin of her bare arms and decolletage. The hem ended at her thighs, with a long black fringe falling in a mesmerising curtain that swayed as she walked, giving tantalising glimpses of her legs above the knee. Venetia Hall’s chestnut hair had been styled in a long French bob, and she wore a sparkling hair clip that gathered it to one side. Her lips were a dark red, her eyes smoky, and a delicate silver choker sparkled at her throat.</p>
<p>She stopped in front of Strike, who, for the first time in his life, let his eyes openly linger on the curves of her figure before raising them to her face. </p>
<p>Robin offered him a formal hand, her blue-grey eyes sparkling underneath the smoky eye makeup.</p>
<p>Strike took her proffered hand and leaned forward, flipping her palm over and kissing the back of her hand in echo of a favourite memory. “You look absolutely stunning,” he said, his lips brushing the skin of her knuckles, and Robin blushed. He wasn’t usually this direct, but tonight, he wanted to be. </p>
<p>And she didn’t look away. </p>
<p>“Thanks. You look pretty fantastic, yourself.” Robin’s eyes swept down his body and back up again in playful flirtation, and Strike wondered if - <em>hoped - </em>she liked what she saw.</p>
<p>“Only five more minutes, according to the schedule,” Ilsa said, and Strike looked over in surprise. He had almost forgotten she and Nick were standing there. </p>
<p>“You look great,” he told her, truthfully. Her blonde hair was curled and tucked under to imitate a bob, a silver headband shimmered at her forehead, and her dress was similar to Robin’s, although a pretty violet colour. </p>
<p>“Thank you,” she replied happily, and Nick pulled his wife in for a kiss. </p>
<p>“Good evening!” Mr Waugh’s voice carried through the assembled guests as he made his way through the lounge, smiling broadly.</p>
<p>“Are you ready for our Murder Mystery Night?” There was a ripple of agreement through the room.</p>
<p>“Excellent. I know you’ve all been instructed to leave your mobile phones in your cabins, which will help with the authenticity of the evening. Our crew will be at the ready the whole time, in case of any emergency. You have all been told your characters ahead of time, but hopefully you have your cards with you so you know who you have to interact with, for clues.”</p>
<p>Waugh waggled his eyebrows. </p>
<p>“If you are the murderer or the victim, you know your roles. Please, mingle in character for an hour, find out any clues you can. Dinner will be served, followed by dessert, then a short, twenty minute break. We will return for the denouement, where you’ll have a chance to guess the murderer. The entire evening should end at 10:30 pm.”</p>
<p>People had been nodding eagerly along, and Waugh nodded to a crew member, who pressed a button on the wall. Music drifted through the air; the familiar big band sound of the 1930s. </p>
<p>“Let the evening begin!” declared Waugh.</p>
<p>The four friends smiled at each other. </p>
<p>“Well, I know you’re ‘Miss Violet,’” began Robin, nodding to Ilsa. “A lounge singer with a dreadful secret.” Ilsa inclined her head with a wink. “Who is this handsome gentleman?” Robin asked, and Nick bowed. </p>
<p>“Dr Sullivan,” stated Nick, then, with a slight grin, added, “a somewhat shady man with my own practice.”</p>
<p>Robin turned to Strike, her eyebrows raised in expectation. </p>
<p>“I’m Mr Allen, a failed businessman with a mysterious past,” he quoted dutifully. “I’m here with my wife, trying to win her back.”  </p>
<p>Strike looked around the compartment at the other women who were assembled. He hoped to Christ that the lady playing “Mrs Allen” wasn’t Gwendoline with her parrot.</p>
<p>Robin stepped closer, her eyes full of mischief. “Hello, husband.”</p>
<p>Strike looked down at her. “I believe I have to win you, over the course of the evening,” he joked, but as the words left his mouth, he realised how much he meant them. </p>
<p>“Go ahead,” replied Robin saucily, then looked deep into his eyes, her expression growing serious. “I’m ready.” </p>
<p>Her words went straight to his heart, and the evening was suddenly sparkling with possibility.</p>
<p>“This is fun, eh?” </p>
<p>Cameron had appeared, grinning at them all. He placed a hand over his heart, and announced, in an affected, haughty voice, “I am Lord Blackfeather, a whisky tycoon.” He stuck out a leg and bowed deeply, and Strike muttered something that sounded like “overkill”.</p>
<p>“Oh, Lord Blackfeather!” Robin stepped forward. “I’m Mrs Allen.” She pulled her character card out from the small beaded bag at her wrist and nodded at it. “I believe you and I have business to discuss.”</p>
<p>“Mrs Allen!” Cameron offered Robin his arm. “The very person I’ve been looking for.” They left together, and Strike sighed. Nick and Ilsa were deep into comparing their character cards, clearly forming an alliance. </p>
<p>“Hello, I’m Nurse Wright,” came a voice at his elbow, and Strike turned to see Mary, the solo traveller. She had a starched white apron over her dress, and a white cap perched on her grey hair. </p>
<p>“Mr Allen,” replied Strike, and they shook hands. </p>
<p>“I work in Dr Sullivan’s practice, and I think he’s hiding something,” said Mary in a stage-whisper, nodding at Nick. </p>
<p>“Would it be an affair with the lounge singer, Miss Violet?” he asked dryly, as Nick leaned closer to Ilsa, his arm around her waist, and kissed her neck. Strike ignored the hollow ache in his chest at the sight of the intimate gesture, and wrenched his attention back to Mary.</p>
<p>“Actually,” said Mary, dropping the act and smiling outright, “I think I already have this whole thing solved.”</p>
<p>Strike raised his eyebrows, and Mary nodded importantly. </p>
<p>“I’m a mystery author, you see. So I know how all of this works.” She took a satisfied sip of her drink. </p>
<p>“Good for you,” said Strike warily. </p>
<p>“I’ve not actually written anything yet,” continued Mary. </p>
<p>“Published, or—”</p>
<p>“Oh, no, I mean, I don’t have anything done. But I have pages of notes,” she smiled, tapping the side of her head. Out of the corner of his eye, Strike saw Cameron and Robin move to the nearest corner. Robin leaned against the wall, her bent knee parting her dress’ curtain of fringe and revealing the creamy, pale skin of her thigh. Strike’s fingers twitched. </p>
<p>“Anyway, I’ve got it all figured out, but I doubt anyone else in this room has my set of skills,” said Mary smugly. She looked at him curiously.</p>
<p>“What is it that you do? In real life, I mean.”</p>
<p>“I’m a private detective.”</p>
<p>Mary laughed, and touched the sleeve of his suit. In the corner, Cameron leaned closer to Robin, who had a genuine smile on her face. Nick and Ilsa wandered over to them. </p>
<p>“A private detective. You’re hilarious!” Mary was saying, her hand still on Strike’s elbow. “What do you make of Gwendoline and her parrot? I heard he’s very special.”</p>
<p>“Sir Hugo Mountjoy the Third <em>is</em> special,” said an imperious voice, and Gwendoline appeared, hovering. She was dressed in a sweeping royal blue silk gown, and had an enormous feather balanced precariously in her hair. Strike resisted the urge to ask if it was a parrot feather. </p>
<p>“He’s a Hyacinth Macaw, which is the rarest among the species, only experienced owners should handle them…”</p>
<p>A burst of laughter sounded from the foursome in the corner, and Strike glanced over to see Robin leaning forward, clutching Ilsa, the women’s shoulders shaking with merriment. Nick high-fived Cameron. </p>
<p>Strike gritted his teeth.</p>
<p>A crew member stepped forward and rang a silver bell. </p>
<p>“Could everyone please proceed to the dining car? Dinner won’t be served for another half hour, but the night will progress in there.”</p>
<p>Relieved, Strike moved forward with the rest of the chattering, laughing guests, determined not to let the evening, and his chance with Robin, slip away.</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chugging Along</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Warning for Braces!Strike - Hobbes, you will be needing the fork 😜</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Robin was pleased to find, on examining the place cards in the dining car, that she had been seated with the Herberts and Cameron. Her character needed to conduct a business deal with Cameron’s, and it was either part of the game that Dr Sullivan and Miss Violet were embarking upon an affair, or it was about to be, she mused fondly as the Herberts slid into their seats opposite her, hand in hand with no attempt to hide it. Ilsa looked stunning tonight, and the way she and Nick were looking at one another made Robin’s heart swell with fondness and just a touch of the wistful. Had she and Matthew ever been that in love? If they had, it had been too many years ago to count. She tried to imagine him ever looking at her the way Nick gazed at his wife, but her brain wouldn’t conjure Matthew’s hazel eyes, instead offering her a dark, intense gaze, crinkles and stubble—</p><p>“Mrs Allen, we meet again.” Cameron sat down next to her with a charming smile.</p><p>“Lord Blackfeather,” Robin murmured. “We do indeed.” And she pulled her attention to the game at hand.</p><p>Strike, deeply dismayed to discover that he was to sit with Mary, the great (soon-to-be) author, and across the aisle from Gwendoline and Felicity and the parrot that was fast becoming “<em>that bloody bird</em>” in his head, took the opportunity of being on his feet to sneak away for a cigarette. The train was technically non-smoking, and he had been forced to drastically reduce his intake, much to his dismay. Luckily his cabin was fairly near the back of the train; last night and then again this morning he had managed to smoke leaning out of a side window between the car he was sharing with Robin and the Herberts and the very rear car, which seemed to just be used for storage. </p><p>It had thus been some hours, and Strike was determined to find another outlet. He wasn’t going to go an entire damn week without his regular nicotine fix. He’d smelled, in the way that smokers always spot one another, a hint of cigarette smoke on the concierge who was doubling as the chef, and so he made his way past the kitchen end of the dining car, which was set up so that the passengers could see the activity within - great for show-off food like flambé, he mused, bad for hanging out of the window for a crafty cigarette - and followed the narrow corridor down past two coaches’ worth of compartments. Sure enough, as he reached the small car that held the former conductor’s compartment and now appeared to be Waugh’s office, immediately behind the engine, he came across the chef and who he assumed was the engineer, leaning out of the windows between two cars, hands dangling outside.</p><p>The chef whipped around to face him as Strike shouldered his way through the narrow door. “Can I help you, sir?”</p><p>Strike gave him his best grin, pulling his cigarettes from his pocket. “I’d rather you just ignored me.”</p><p>The chef grinned, and the engineer behind him visibly relaxed. Strike lit up and took a deep, welcome drag.</p><p>“Christ, I was beginning to think I was having an enforced nicotine-free week,” he said. No harm in making friendly connections.</p><p>“Here, lean out the other window,” the chef murmured, casting an anxious glance down the train towards the distant party, and Strike obliged, sliding the glass panel down and holding his cigarette outside. Dimly he could see the lurking shadows of rolling hills in the moonlight. They were beginning to climb quite steeply. He turned back to face his smoking companions.</p><p>“Cormoran,” he said, sticking his free hand out.</p><p>The chef shook his hand cautiously. “Gary,” he replied. “And that’s Simon, engineering and maintenance.”</p><p>Strike nodded and raised his eyebrows. “The whole train?”</p><p>Simon grinned. “Yup. Everything from tinkering with the engine if it needs it down to fixing the water system and changing light bulbs. New refurb, though, so with a bit of luck I shall have an easy week of it.”</p><p>Strike laughed and nodded, and the three men made companionable small talk. Strike was careful not to ask too many questions; it wouldn’t do to seem too pushy. There would be plenty of time and opportunities to get to know fellow smokers.</p><p>By the time he made it back to the dining car, aperitifs had been served and Mary was admonishing him for being late. Her nose wrinkled, and he knew she could smell the cigarette smoke on him. Her quiet disapproval reminded him suddenly of his Aunt Joan, and this made Strike like her even less; he’d been very fond of his aunt, and perversely felt that this woman had no right to remind him of her.</p><p>He sat down with a forced smile and prepared himself to endure what promised to be a very boring portion of the evening.</p><p>Abruptly, Mr Jones stood up from his chair and let out a shriek before clutching his chest dramatically. Everyone stopped and clustered around him. He was clearly having a hard time fighting back laughter, as he staggered forward, then pointed his finger mysteriously to the corner. </p><p>“You’ll pay for this!” he declared to the guests, and giggled madly. “I’ve been poisoned!” he declared, then dropped surprisingly gracefully to the floor, where he continued to shake with mirth. </p><p>Some people laughed, although some reacted in character. As Dr Sullivan, Nick proceeded to pronounce the body dead, and Mr Jones got up, dusting his clothes off. He would be allowed to proceed with the evening as a sort of ghost, he explained, as his character didn’t know who poisoned him. </p><p>There was excited chatter and a quick round of guessing and pointing fingers as the guests settled into their seats again. </p><p>At her table, Robin was having a good time. Nick and Ilsa were flirting heavily, throwing themselves very thoroughly into their characters’ clandestine affair. She and Cameron were already on their second drinks of the evening, and their characters’ business deal was getting sillier and sillier; Robin was just a little tipsy and starting to feel loose and relaxed. Like Strike earlier, she had abandoned the pretence of working tonight and just wanted to enjoy herself.</p><p>Food began to be served, and was delicious. The conversation inevitably wandered from the game. Cameron was well travelled, and Nick and Ilsa were keen to ask him questions about places they wanted to visit; Robin ate her meal and listened and enjoyed her wine, her eyes straying again and again to her business partner a little further down the carriage. He had undone his jacket as the room warmed up, and Robin was intrigued to spot the odd flash of a stripe of burgundy against his shirt beneath the open sides - was he wearing…<em>braces</em>?</p><p>By the time the desserts were served, the atmosphere in the dining car was loudly convivial; the wine had flowed well, and the game lent an air of jollity and camaraderie to proceedings. Robin could quite see why Waugh had built the evening into the schedule, and so early in the trip; the passengers were suddenly a group, talking across aisles and stopping to chat at other tables on their way to and from the toilets or their compartments. It had served as a perfect ice-breaker.</p><p>“If it’s acceptable to everyone,” Waugh announced, “I’m going to allow cigars in here this evening. We are normally a non-smoking service, but I have had a couple of requests. Anyone who wishes is welcome to take their dessert and coffee through to the lounge, the staff will happily assist you.”</p><p>Smiling, Nick slipped his cigars from his pocket and waved them at Strike, who grinned and raised a hand in acknowledgment.</p><p>There was a short burst of activity. Of <em>course </em>Hugo Mountjoy III could not be expected to tolerate cigar smoke - an irony, Nick muttered, given the bird was allowed anywhere near food being served - and there was the usual attendant fuss and palaver that seemed to follow Gwendoline wherever she went, as half the staff were required to help move Gwendoline and Felicity’s desserts and coffees, their jackets and bags, and the bird himself through to the next carriage. Glad to see the back of them, Strike moved up to sit at the table opposite Robin and the Herberts. Cameron followed the bird and his entourage with some reluctance - he’d clearly enjoyed Robin’s company, but his card told him he needed to speak to Gwendoline and Felicity’s characters before the end of the evening, so he dutifully followed them.</p><p>Formal dinner over, Strike undid his bow tie with a sigh of relief. He shed his jacket and laid it over the back of his chair, adjusted the fit of his braces across his broad shoulders, and reached to accept a cigar from Nick.</p><p>“Bloody penguin suit,” he muttered, grinning, as he undid his cufflinks and set them on the table next to his espresso and the large glass of rather fine ruby port he’d secured. He really could get used to living a life of luxury, he mused as he focused on lighting his cigar, if only it didn’t have to be enjoyed in such uncomfortable clothing. He was vaguely aware of Robin’s focus on him, and he sat back in his seat, leaning to catch something Ilsa was saying, his ego stretching a little underneath his partner’s attention. He grinned across at her, then in a flash of boldness he winked. Her answering blush and smile sent a shot of heat through him, along with the sudden, heady sense of possibility. </p><p> </p><p>*****</p><p> </p><p>Robin was sitting across from a very different version of her normally reserved partner. An easy, open smile lit his features as he chatted with the Herberts. Ilsa made a comment and Robin watched, mesmerised, as Strike chuckled heartily, nodding and gesturing with his port glass. His cheeks hollowed briefly as he drew on the cigar, stubble already shadowing his jaw, and he caught Robin’s eye again and grinned before turning back to Nick. The warmth in her stomach wasn’t just due to the drinks and the untroubled quality of the evening; it was also that smile on his face she couldn’t stop staring at. And what was it about formal wear made casual that was so attractive? With the burgundy braces against the crisp white of his shirt, the ends of his black bow tie dangling next to them, his sleeves rolled up to reveal dark-haired forearms, a cigar in one hand and a glass of port in the other, Strike looked positively edible. He’d leaned his large frame back in the chair, replete with good food, his long legs extending out into the aisle a little as he chatted with Nick about the brand of cigar he’d chosen—</p><p>“Psst.” Robin’s attention had been snagged by a poke on the elbow from Ilsa.  “You’re actually drooling now, love.”</p><p>“I am not,” Robin laughed, feeling her cheeks heat up and glad suddenly that the room was warm and the wine flowing.</p><p>Ilsa shrugged. “Even I think he scrubs up well,” she said. “Not as good-looking as Nick, obviously,” and here she cast a lascivious glance at her husband, who had also discarded his jacket, revealing navy braces, and was leaning across to impart some snippet of gossip to his mate.</p><p>“Obviously,” Robin replied, smiling fondly.</p><p>“So, have you two detectives solved the case yet?” Nick asked.</p><p>“Which one?” Strike asked. “The real one or the fake one?”</p><p>“Either.” Nick looked from Strike to Robin and grinned. “Both.”</p><p>“Neither,” said Robin. “Mrs Allen has been too busy conducting business with Lord Blackfeather.” She gave a toss of her head, her sparkling hair clip catching the light. She could feel Strike’s eyes on her, and glanced at him. </p><p>“I thought your nefarious husband Mr Allen here was supposed to spend the evening winning you,” teased Nick.</p><p>“I haven’t given it my best shot yet,” said Strike, his voice low. He was still holding Robin’s gaze. The warmth in her stomach turned into molten heat. She raised her eyebrows flirtatiously, her character’s persona giving her a boost of daring. </p><p>“Let’s see you take it, then,” she said, and rose from her chair, sashaying to the corner of the dining car. She turned and stood, heart beating madly as Strike joined her. He leaned casually against the wall, hands in his pockets, facing her. </p><p>“Finally, Mr Allen.” She nodded coyly, fingers toying with the delicate chain at her throat. Robin could feel the heat of his gaze on her skin, could feel his eyes blazing a path from her throat to her legs. He was outright, openly admiring her, in a way he hadn’t ever done before. It felt like they were leaving all previous inhibitions behind, the train pulling them into unexplored territory, throwing all their rules out the window. </p><p>And she liked it.</p><p>“I’m still waiting,” she said, turning her eyes back to his. </p><p>His eyes were dark, fathomless. “Can’t keep a lady waiting,” he murmured. He leaned closer, and took a hand out of his pocket. </p><p>“Mrs Allen!” chirped Felicity, appearing from behind Strike. “I’m supposed to discuss Miss Violet’s secret with you, and I’ve barely talked to you all evening!” She glanced nervously at Strike, who had frozen almost comically in place. </p><p>“Do you mind?” Felicity asked, and stepped forcibly between him and Robin. </p><p>Robin’s heart was beating wildly as she looked at Strike, who rolled his eyes, grinned at Robin, then made his way back to the table with the Herberts. </p><p>Robin was trapped for a full fifteen minutes with Felicity before she could extract herself from the conversation and sit back down beside Ilsa. By then, the moment between her and Strike had long passed. </p><p>But, thought Robin, as she snuck him a glance, and he smiled back, the evening wasn’t over yet.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Photo of <a href="https://lulacat3.tumblr.com/post/646007136211632128/bracesstrike-vgriffindor">Braces!Strike</a> supplied by hobbeshalftail3469 🔥</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Blowing Smoke</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"I’m going to pop back to my cabin a minute, powder my nose and so on,” Robin said eventually.</p><p>“And I’m going to go and find a handy window to hang out of,” Strike said, extracting his cigarettes and lighter from his pocket and pulling himself up from the table.</p><p>“Mm, don’t hurry back,” Ilsa said slyly, her hand creeping across to Nick’s thigh.</p><p>Stike laughed. “Good Lord, give it a rest, you two,” he said, grinning. “See you in the bar in a few minutes for the big reveal?”</p><p>The others all nodded, and he set off for his nicotine fix. With a last, fond smile at the Herberts, Robin headed for her cabin. On her way, she passed Gwendoline fairly shouting at poor Felicity, who appeared to have the unlucky task of putting Sir Hugo Mountjoy III in their cabin for the evening. The immense parrot didn’t seem to be putting up any resistance, as far as Robin could tell, but Gwendoline was issuing commands as if it were a military operation. </p><p>“No, no, no, can’t you remember, he likes his water with some fresh lemon squirted in it!”</p><p>A muffled squawk and a ruffling of feathers could be heard. </p><p>“Good heavens, Felicity, can you not see that Sir Hugo adores his bow tie; let him wear it a bit longer!”</p><p>Robin shook her head, smiling to herself, and continued on to her cabin. She stared at herself in the little mirror as she touched up her lipstick and squirted a fresh spritz of Narciso into the air to waft around herself. She didn’t want it to be too overpowering, but she wanted Strike to notice, if he got close enough, that she was wearing the scent he’d given her.</p><p>
  <i>If he got close enough.</i>
</p><p>Her stomach swirled with excitement. There was no denying it after that conversation in the dining car after dinner. He had definitely been flirting with her. Something was going to happen, something they both wanted. She could feel it.</p><p>There was a brief, functional knock on her door, and before she could answer, the door opened and Chloe half entered then stopped abruptly, clearly having expected the room to be empty. She looked flustered, possibly a little upset.</p><p>“Sorry!” she cried. “I expected all the cabins to be empty, I thought everyone was at the murder mystery.”</p><p>“They are, I just popped back for a moment,” Robin assured her. “Can I help you?”</p><p>“Oh, no, I—I’m just going round making all the beds,” Chloe replied. “We try to get it done during dinner so that when everyone gets back, they can go to bed if they want to.”</p><p>“Of course,” Robin said, smiling. “It was lovely to find my bed all made up ready last night, thank you.” She hesitated “Are...are you okay?”</p><p>“I’m fine,” Chloe said brightly, but her voice shook a little. She blinked and backed out of the door, casting an anxious glance in the direction of the party. “I’ll do next door, come back when you’re done.”</p><p>“I am done,” Robin assured her, following her out. “You sure everything’s all right?”</p><p>Chloe hesitated just a moment, tears in her eyes, Robin’s kind tone clearly inviting a confidence. “I—” She paused. “I thought I saw—”</p><p>“Need a hand down this end, Chlo?” The other chambermaid-slash-waitress, who Robin vaguely recalled was named Jenny, poked her head in the end door of the carriage.</p><p>Chloe jumped, and stepped back again. “No, I’m good thanks, nearly done,” she replied, wiping her eye with a trembling hand.</p><p>“It’s my fault, I’m holding her up,” Robin said cheerfully. “I’ll get out of your hair.” She hesitated a little, wanting to stay and check that Chloe was all right, but Jenny was holding the door open for her.</p><p><i>She’d probably rather talk to a friend anyway,</i> Robin thought. And besides, she wanted to get back to the party and the possibilities of the evening in front of her. She was enjoying the murder mystery evening, but she was enjoying whatever was going on between herself and Strike more, and rather hoping that once the fun and games were over, she could find a private moment with him. <i>Maybe have some fun and games of our own,</i> she thought to herself, suppressing a grin as she slipped through the door Jenny was still holding.</p><p>“Thanks,” she murmured, and hurried back towards the lounge car, her thoughts already on the rest of the evening ahead, excitement fizzing in her veins.</p><p>When she reached the doors, she nearly bumped into Cameron, who was hovering outside. He looked up at her approach, startled, and shrugged. “Just had to step away from the party for a moment. Back at it now, though.” He gave her a smooth smile. “Shall we?”</p><p>Robin nodded, and they entered the car together. </p><p>*****</p><p>Cigarette finished, Strike was also making his way back towards the lounge car from the opposite direction. He’d been glad of a moment to himself to clear his head - once he’d got over feeling that he could have cheerfully throttled Felicity, murder mystery evening or no, for interrupting him and Robin when the possibility of this finally being <i>the</i> moment had seemed to hang in the air.</p><p>He’d smoked and gazed out into the darkness, anticipation fizzing through his veins. Whatever was next for him and Robin was there for the taking tonight, he could feel it. An invisible line had been crossed, by both of them, in the open flirting that had nothing to do with the characters they were playing and everything to do with the slowly growing recognition that what he had long suspected was true - the attraction between them was mutual and both wanted to act upon it.</p><p>His hand shook a little as he flicked his cigarette butt down towards the tracks swishing past beneath the train’s wheels, excitement mounting as he turned back towards the busy lounge car. He paused to wait for Simon, the engineer, who was coming down the narrow corridor towards him; there wasn’t really room for two men to pass in the space next to to the sleeping compartments, particularly when one of those men was as broad as Strike. With a brief acknowledgment, Simon passed him in the space between carriages and went on towards the office at the front of the train; Strike hurried as best he could towards the remainder of the murder mystery evening and, far more importantly, Robin.</p><p>He was obliged to pause again, impatience making him scowl, at the space between carriages at the end of the dining coach. Beyond the small window at the end of the sleeper car he was in, he could see Waugh and Gary, deep in a conversation that looked, from their body language, like an argument. The innate detective in him made him drift closer, interested to know what antagonism might exist between the two men who clearly worked closely together on the planning and execution of the trip, but before he could overhear anything other than the timbre of slightly raised voices, Waugh spotted him and stepped back at once.</p><p>Stike gave them a jovial smile and greeted both as he opened the door and proceeded past them; their replies were muted, though Waugh made more of an effort. Strike couldn’t linger to hear what they might have to say to one another, and in any case Gary was already turning back to the kitchen where the washing up was in full swing; grasping the backs of dining chairs as the train swayed and his bad knee protested, Strike strode on towards the lounge and the heady possibilities that lay ahead of him.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Sidetracked</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Robin checked her watch just as Strike returned to the lounge car. The evening should soon be over; it was nearly 10:30. The various guests were sitting about, chatting in small groups. The music had started up again and was playing softly in the background. Everyone’s costumes seemed to have lost a bit of lustre; most of the gentlemen had now shed their suit jackets, Mary’s nurse cap was definitely askew, and Ilsa’s headband was on the table in front of her. </p><p>Strike moved to the chair with his jacket slung across the back of it and sat down. He gave Robin half a wave, smiling. She wove her way to him, stopping just in front of him as he stared up at her. She felt dizzy with hope and chance, and deliberately stepped closer, so that she was standing between his knees.</p><p>“I’m about ready to call it a night, Mr Allen.”</p><p>He grinned up at her, and ever so slowly, raised a large hand and placed it gently at her waist. She took a breath, willing her heart to stop racing, and leaned towards him.</p><p>The music stopped, and the lights flickered once before going completely out, plunging the car into absolute darkness. </p><p>There was shouting, then the sound of breaking glass. Robin stumbled and lost her footing, pitching so unevenly onto Strike’s lap that she almost tumbled off of him, but his arm was at her waist, holding her steady against him. </p><p>“I’ve got you,” he said roughly, and Robin relaxed against him, blinking in the darkness as people called out, and Waugh raised his voice. </p><p>“Please, remain calm, is anyone hurt?” </p><p>“I can’t see a bloody thing!” Robin recognised Mr Jones’ voice. </p><p>“Stop moving, please, I believe there’s glass on the carpet,” pleaded Waugh. “The lights will be back on shortly.”</p><p>“I can’t see a thing!” repeated Mr Jones. </p><p>“Is this part of the murder mystery?” Mary called out. “It’s fun!”</p><p>“Somebody, turn the light on your phone?” suggested Mr Jones.</p><p>“We can’t - we’ve all left them behind in our cabins.” That was Ilsa. </p><p>“My crew are on top of everything, please, just stay calm-”</p><p>“Not a thing! A single damn thing!” declared Mr Jones again. </p><p>“We get it, you can’t see anything!” snapped Cameron, and somebody giggled. </p><p>There was a bit of restless shifting, and murmuring broke out. </p><p>“Is everyone all right?” asked Waugh again, and there was a ripple of agreement. “Good. Just stay where you are, I’m going to see where the crew has got to.”</p><p>“Maybe it <i>is</i> part of the evening?” Nick wondered aloud, and a few people agreed.</p><p>“All right, Ellacott?” Strike murmured, and Robin nodded, then realised he couldn’t see her. </p><p>“Yeah,” she whispered, and relaxed further against his chest. His arm around her waist pulled her closer.</p><p>The darkness magnified every other sense. Robin could smell his aftershave and the slight, comforting smell of his brand of cigarettes. His body was large and surprisingly solid beneath her, and reassuringly warm. The velvety black surrounded them and made her bold; she placed a hand on his chest, then drifted her fingers higher, gently brushing his rough cheek before tangling them in his hair. She felt him breathe in and out. Their faces were so close.</p><p>Robin leaned closer; she could feel the prickle of his stubble and the softness of his lips at her cheek. She took a breath. "Do you think it's anything serious?" </p><p>"I don't,” said Strike softly, the words a caress against the shell of her ear, “give a fuck.” His hand came up, his fingers threaded gently through her hair, and he kissed her.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Off The Tracks</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Robin wasn’t aware of the darkness of the car, or the murmurs of her fellow passengers. The only thing she was aware of was the soft feel of Strike’s lips against hers, one of his hands cupping the back of her head, the other steady at her waist. She melted into the kiss and it deepened, their mouths opening to each other. </p>
<p>His hand stroked from her waist to her thigh, brushing aside silk fringe and settling like a brand on her bare skin. The darkness was a secretive, inviting cocoon, and this kiss was swiftly heading into something more. She shifted again, turning further into him, and Strike’s hand at her thigh hitched her leg gently across him so that she was straddling his lap. Pure, instinctual desire had her hands run up his chest and wrap them around the straps of his braces, and she tugged on them gently as she ground slowly and deliberately against him. He made a soft, helpless noise of appreciation into her mouth, moving slightly with her. </p>
<p>They slowed, then broke apart. Robin felt deliciously light-headed; she could barely think. She had some vague notion that they shouldn’t continue down this hot, desperate path in the dark, but her body was having trouble following her brain’s command. She reluctantly unwrapped her hands from his braces. </p>
<p>There was a sharp, buzzing hum, and the lights came blaring back on. Robin jumped up and leaped from Strike’s lap so fast that she tripped, and Strike had to shoot out a hand to grab her arm, steadying her. She gave him a quick nod, barely looking at him, then stepped quickly away, heart beating madly.</p>
<p>“That’s better!” declared Waugh, who had returned with members of the crew. He pointed to the floor near Mr and Mrs Jones, where Robin, blinking against the sudden glare of the lights, could see a sparkling puddle of broken glass.</p>
<p>People were laughing, and the volume of activity in the car seemed to be turned suddenly high. The Joneses were apologizing for the mess, Mary was telling Ilsa loudly about how she knew the lights would go out all along, and another crew member was checking on Felicity, who looked a bit shaken. </p>
<p>Robin reached up a shaking hand to straighten her hair clip, then smoothed her dress while sneaking a quick look at Strike. He was still seated. He met her gaze and offered a rueful shrug, pushing a hand through his rumpled hair.</p>
<p>“All’s well, but I think that’s a good cue for us to finish our evening before we turn out our lights for the night!” Waugh stated, and the guests laughed. “Would anyone like to guess what happened?”</p>
<p>“I would like to reveal the murderer,” said Mary, stepping forward. “It is Dr Sullivan.” She pointed at Nick with absolute certainty. “He poisoned Mr Smith.” </p>
<p>Nick smiled, shaking his head. </p>
<p>“Sorry, I’m not the murderer. I actually think it’s Lord Blackfeather, trying to eliminate competition.”</p>
<p>Cameron grinned. </p>
<p>“Not me, I’m afraid.”</p>
<p>“Well, I think it was Nurse Wright, or Miss Violet,” guessed Mr Jones. “Any of the women, actually. They’re weaker in all sorts of ways, have to sneak around. Poison is a woman’s weapon, after all.” Robin happened to be standing next to him, and he gave her a condescending, knowing look.</p>
<p>“Just like sexism can be a man’s?” she ventured innocently, and out of the corner of her eye, saw Strike give her an approving grin.</p>
<p>The passengers looked to Waugh, who shook his head in amusement. “Wrong again. Our murderer, this evening, is Mr Allen!”</p>
<p>Nick sat back in his chair, his mouth open, staring at Strike. </p>
<p>“I actually did guess him, before the evening started!” He began to laugh, Ilsa grinning at him.</p>
<p>There was exclamation and applause as Strike rose from his chair. He took his character card from his pocket and began to read Mr Allen’s confession out loud. Robin thought he still looked a touch mussed, his shirt collar uneven, his lips looking a bit reddened and swollen from their heated kiss.</p>
<p>As if hearing her thoughts, he looked up from his reading, shooting her a searing look before flicking his eyes back to the card. </p>
<p>He finished the confession with a nod, grinning, and everyone except Mary applauded. She sat, shaking her head and attempting to speak over the noise, declaring that her own theory made more sense.</p>
<p>“That ends our evening!” Waugh said, glancing at his watch. “We’re a bit behind schedule tonight, due to the lights, but overall I hope everyone had a lovely time! Please let the crew know if they can do anything before you head back to your cabins.” </p>
<p>He checked his watch again, and Robin thought he appeared a bit rushed. Surely the guests could linger for another drink? But the crew were milling around, tidying up dishes and discarded serviettes, sending a polite but clear message that the party was over. </p>
<p>People began to head back to their cabins, shaking hands and thanking Waugh for a good night. Strike and Robin drifted innocently closer in the tide of guests moving out of the car into the hall, passengers breaking off into their separate rooms. Cameron gave her a good-natured wave, which she returned, smiling. </p>
<p>Soon enough, only the Herberts remained with Strike and Robin, heading towards their carriage near the back of the train. They were nearing the end of the evening, and Robin’s heart began to pound with the possibilities that could lie ahead. Surely she and Strike weren’t going to just say goodnight, close their doors and go to sleep? Nerves fluttering, she tried to keep a rein on her feelings, following Strike as he strolled ahead, his jacket flung over one shoulder, finger hooked in the loop. Fortunately for her, Nick and Ilsa only had eyes for each other, it seemed, whispering and chuckling together behind her, hand in hand.</p>
<p>“Waugh certainly rushed us all out of there, didn’t he?” observed Ilsa, as Nick tucked her into his side and pressed a kiss to her temple. </p>
<p>“Maybe he needed to go check on the electrics,” murmured Nick into her hair. “After the whole lights thing.” </p>
<p>They had arrived at their doors. Nick reached into his pocket and produced the Herberts’ key card, and swiped it. Ilsa gave Robin a soft smile.</p>
<p>“Night,” she said. “Lock your door, remember there’s a murderer in the next cabin,” and she winked at Strike, who rolled his eyes a little.</p>
<p>Robin giggled. “I will,” she replied. “Night, guys.”</p>
<p>Ilsa slipped in the door to their compartment, and Nick raised a hand in farewell to his friends and followed her in, leaving Strike and Robin standing facing one another in an empty corridor.</p>
<p>“Are they seriously thinking they’ll manage to get up to anything in these tiny cabins?” Robin wondered aloud as the Herberts’ door clicked firmly closed. Then a blush stole across her cheeks as she realised she had just brought up the subject of sex in front of Strike.</p>
<p>“Oh, they’ll manage,” he replied, grinning. “They did last night.” He moved fractionally nearer to her, his eyes on hers, his gaze intense.</p>
<p>“How do you—? You can <em>hear</em> them?” Robin answered her own question, her heart rate spiking again simply from the way he was looking at her. This was it, the moment she had craved since their heated kiss in the dark of the lounge car.</p>
<p>“These walls are pretty thin,” Strike murmured, and he was suddenly even closer, learning in. He glanced swiftly up and down the corridor; no one was in sight.</p>
<p>Her breathing unsteady, drowning in his dark eyes, Robin placed a tentative hand on the front of his shirt. His gaze was fond, but focused and intent, and she gave a tiny whimper as his mouth found hers again.</p>
<p>Trembling, Robin slid her arms around Strike’s neck as he kissed her, and felt the rumble of appreciation echo in his chest as she opened her mouth to him. His free arm curled around her waist, his forgotten jacket crushed against her back; and he pulled her body flush against his, the gentle rocking of the train causing them to sway together. His tongue swept into her mouth, sure and confident, and delicious heat fizzed through her.</p>
<p>Eventually Strike pulled back, drew a deep breath and rested his forehead on hers in the empty corridor. Her body was still pressed to his; he could feel every curve, shifting against him as the train rounded a slow corner, and knew she’d be able to feel how much he wanted to take things further. He ached with desire; would it be too forward to ask her into his cabin?</p>
<p>He hesitated, but then he looked into Robin’s eyes, the passion in them so clearly mirroring his own, and he made a decision.</p>
<p>“Would you—?”</p>
<p>He was cut off as the sound of a spine-tingling, anguished scream split the air. Robin startled in his arms, and they stared at one another.</p>
<p>“What was that?”</p>
<p>But the answer came, a split second later, as the same voice wailed desperately into the night.</p>
<p>“Someone, HELP! She’s <em> dead</em>!”</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Derailed</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“What the—?” Strike stepped back from Robin as she slid her arms from around his neck. The scream had come from the one of the cars that was further back than theirs, where the staff slept.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The door to the Herberts’ cabin was wrenched open and Nick appeared, doing up shirt buttons. “Did I just hear—?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Confusion reigned for a few moments. Strike and Nick moved towards the voice, which was sobbing now and calling for help still, Strike tugging open the end door of the car. Beyond him, Robin could see Jenny running down the corridor towards them, her panicked face streaked with tears.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stay here,” Robin told Ilsa. “There won’t be room for us all.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ilsa nodded, casting a concerned look after her husband but recognising the truth of Robin’s words. Robin herself paused only to kick her tall heels into her cabin and slip her feet into flats, and followed Strike and Nick.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The corridor of the staff car was narrow, and the bunks small. Robin counted four or five doors as she hurried along; no en suite for the staff, then. These rooms were probably little more than bunk beds in cupboards.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She arrived at the door to the cabin Jenny shared with Chloe, and her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, no...”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Inside, Nick was crouched over Chloe in the narrow bunk. His fingers searched for a pulse at wrist and throat, and he pulled her eyelid back, peering in the dim light from the single bulb above him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In the corridor, a sobbing Jenny slumped in Strike’s arms; he made vague soothing noises, and over the top of her head he appealed wordlessly to Robin for help. Robin moved forward and gently extricated Jenny, easing her back along the corridor. “Let’s go and find you a glass of water,” she murmured.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nick stepped out of the cabin, his face grim, and shook his head at Strike. Shock jolted through Robin’s stomach and she turned away, her thoughts racing, and continued to gently shepherd Jenny back towards the middle of the train, which rattled on, unconcerned, through the night.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>*****</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The next hour passed in a blur. Waugh and Simon were located in the office at the front of the train where they had been examining the fuse boxes in the office. Gary had been in the kitchen putting the last touches to breakfast preparations. Visibly distraught, he insisted on seeing Chloe, and Strike accompanied him back along the train. Robin procured a glass of water for the ashen, shaking Jenny, and she and Ilsa sat and comforted her as best they could. By the time Gary and Strike returned, a knot of people were gathered in the dining car, and more were beginning to arrive, passengers disturbed from their bedtime routines by all the to-ing and fro-ing. Despite Strike’s best efforts to keep everything under wraps, rumours swept the train like wildfire.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In the end, Waugh was forced to make a statement, as pretty much everyone was gathered now, milling and murmuring, eyeing Jenny’s tears and Gary’s stricken face, Strike and Nick’s grim expressions, Waugh’s shock.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m afraid one of our staff, Chloe, has unfortunately passed away this evening—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A ripple of shock crossed the dining car as the rumour was revealed to be true.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But we saw her just an hour ago!” Gwendoline announced, unnecessarily. “She was fine then!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her arm still around Jenny, it occurred to Robin suddenly that she hadn’t seen Chloe since their encounter in the corridor earlier. Jenny had been doing all the waitressing and clearing up. Where had her colleague been? Robin had vaguely assumed, without really giving it much thought, that Chloe was still finishing preparing bedrooms. How had she gone from that to lying neatly in her bed, dead?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She glanced across at Strike and could see he was thinking the same thing. Their eyes met in a flash of understanding, and a sinister shiver ran through Robin. Surely this was just a terrible tragedy? But she knew, deep down, that healthy young women didn’t just quietly die in their beds.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We haven’t actually seen her for ages,” Cameron mused.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She was right here,” Gwendoline insisted. “She brought me my coffee.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That was Jenny,” Robin murmured, and the girl in her arms gave a muffled sob.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She was doing our cabin when I went to change my shoes,” Mrs Jones said.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin wondered what time that was, but resisted the urge to ask; the time for questions would come later, when they’d ascertained the facts of the matter. At the moment, what they needed was for people not to speculate. A faint hope, she knew.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike stepped forward. Clearly Waugh wasn’t going to take control of the situation. He looked as shocked and distracted as everyone else.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right, folks,” he said, and there was a commanding note to his voice. Eyes turned to him, and Robin could see that the room wanted someone to take charge, wanted to know that something was being done to restore order to a trip that had taken a sudden and sinister turn.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“This is likely to be simply a tragic accident, a stroke of bad luck,” Strike said soothingly. “Fortunately Nick here, who you’ll remember played Dr Sullivan tonight, is genuinely a medical doctor, so he will check Chloe over and we’ll take it from there. No doubt we will have to reroute to the nearest town, but there isn’t much anyone can do right at the moment, so I suggest you all go back to your cabins and <em>stay there</em>—” his eyes flicked to Gwendoline, who had opened her mouth but closed it again as she met his steely gaze “—and we’ll give you a further update over breakfast.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He stopped and, as Waugh made as if to speak, gestured to him with a hand to stop him. When it became clear that nothing further was to be said or done tonight, the assembled guests began to drift away, murmuring amongst themselves.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gradually the dining car emptied, and soon only Robin and Ilsa comforting Jenny, Strike and Nick stood behind them and Waugh and Gary by the kitchen area remained. There was a moment when they all stood and looked at one another.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I gave her sleeping tablets,” Waugh blurted, and all eyes turned to him. “But only two, not enough to—” He broke off.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gary was glaring at him. “Why would you do that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Waugh shrugged. “She was upset, overwrought. It’s been a stressful start to the trip.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“In what way?” Strike asked sharply, but Waugh shrugged, his eyes going to the floor.</span>
</p>
<p>Robin looked up at Strike, and she could see the cogs turning swiftly. She remembered him telling her about the golden hour, the initial aftermath of a crime when the most evidence could be found.</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m going back to check over the room,” he said decidedly, as she’d expected he would. “Nick, with me. Will you be able to tell if it was an accidental overdose?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nick shrugged. “Maybe. Bit hard to do without the proper kit. She’d have to have taken way more than two, though.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She has her own,” Gary offered.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike glanced at him, hesitated and nodded. “We’ll see what we can find.” He turned to Robin. “You all right here?” His gaze flicked briefly from hers to Jenny’s head, towards Gary and back again.</span>
</p>
<p>Robin nodded, understanding his implication. Information could be gleaned from people in shock in the initial aftermath, and there was clearly more going on here than met the eye; he was leaving her to some subtle initial questioning.</p>
<p>
  <span>He nodded too, just a fraction, and turned and left, Nick following in his wake.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The tension seemed to leave the room with Strike and Nick. Gary dropped into a chair and put his head in his hands. Waugh moved over towards the kitchen.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Anyone want anything?” he asked vaguely. “I’ll put the kettle on.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin nodded. “Good idea,” she replied. Her arm tightened around Jenny’s shoulders. “Cup of tea, Jenny?” She asked kindly, and Jenny nodded and straightened up a little, wiping her face with her hands.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you okay?” Robin asked Gary quietly. He looked at her as though seeing right through her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” he muttered. “I just can’t believe it. Chloe is - was - my girlfriend.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin remembered the intense conversation between them, that first day of the trip, remembered Chloe’s tense misery, and nodded kindly. “It’s a huge shock. Did she take sleeping pills every night?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” he replied, gazing out of the window into the darkness. “She hadn’t taken them in ages, only brought them along because she was afraid she’d have trouble sleeping on the train and she wanted to be fresh for work.” He cast a brooding glance towards the kitchen. “Don’t know why <em>he’d</em> think it was a good idea to give her any.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin shrugged, trying to keep her expression as neutral as possible. “I’m sure Waugh was just trying to help a member of staff.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gary snorted and turned back to examining the invisible scenery out of the window. Robin looked down the car, watching Waugh make cups of tea in the kitchen, the kettle hissing next to him, and wondered at the tension she could feel between the two men - the owner of the train and his second in command - and why Waugh had said the start of the trip had been stressful. From a passenger’s point of view, it looked to have been going swimmingly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Until someone had died.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>By the time Strike and Nick returned looking, if anything, more grim than when they had left, Waugh had passed the cups of tea around and everyone had drunk one. Jenny was looking a little less upset. Gary had stared out of the window into the blackness the entire time, barely acknowledging the tea placed in front of him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What do you think?” Waugh asked, looking up as they entered the carriage.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Inconclusive,” Strike said firmly. “I suggest we all go to bed. How soon can you reroute us to somewhere that’ll have a hospital and a police station?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Waugh sighed. “I’ll have to go over the maps,” he said. “This trip was planned, as you know, around beautiful scenery and high mountain passes, not large conurbations. Geneva might be our best bet.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike nodded. “Well, we might as well keep moving for now,” he replied, “and make our way to somewhere official tomorrow.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gary had finally pulled his gaze from the window at Strike’s mention of retiring to bed. “Jenny shares a room with Chloe,” he said quietly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The one next door to them is empty,” Waugh said. He turned to Jenny. “Will you be all right in there?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jenny nodded.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll help you move your stuff,” Nick told her.</span>
</p>
<p>“Touch as little as possible,” Strike warned, and Nick nodded.</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll head to bed too,” Gary said heavily, and stood.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You might as well get to bed, too, Jenny,” Robin suggested gently. “There’s nothing more we can do tonight.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nick smiled his kindly smile at the waitress. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll see you to you room, you’ll be quite safe.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a tremulous smile, Jenny got up. “Thank you,” she murmured to Robin and Ilsa.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know where I am,” Robin said, giving her hand a squeeze, and Jenny nodded and followed Gary and Nick from the room.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike turned to Waugh. “I want that cabin locked,” he said. “It’s a potential crime scene, the police will want it undisturbed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Waugh stared at him. “Crime scene?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike shrugged. “It’s a universal standard for an unexpected death. They’ll want to check the scene and do a full autopsy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Waugh nodded. “Just drop the catch and slam it, nobody will be able to get in from the outside then,” he said. “I’ll get you the spare key tomorrow.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thanks. I suggest you get to bed too, mate, nothing else we can do tonight. I’ll see you at breakfast, see about getting to the authorities as soon as we can.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yup.” Waugh hesitated and looked around. “You all okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin smiled. “We’ll tidy up,” she said.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Waugh left, and Strike sighed, visibly relaxing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ilsa spoke softly. “You think it’s murder.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike sat down on the seat opposite her and Robin, and ran a hand through his hair. Sobering as the evening was, Robin couldn’t help noticing his sleeves still rolled up, his big hands cupping around the tea Waugh had left for him. His hair was a riot of curls, from his hands or her own, and he’d shed his tie entirely at some point, his shirt open at the collar.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nick says asphyxiation.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin stared in shock. “She was strangled?” Her own throat tingled with a long-ago memory and icy coldness slid down her spine.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike shook his head. “No, no marks on her neck. A pillow over the face, most likely.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That takes strength.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes and no. Nick says she didn’t struggle much, presumably because of the drugs.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin stared at him. “That makes Waugh the most likely suspect.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Exactly.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The three of them sat and looked at one another. Eventually Ilsa sighed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, we’re not going to get much more done tonight,” she said. “I’m going to go and see what Nick’s up to and head to bed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike nodded. “Good idea,” he replied.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ilsa stood, and gave her friends a rueful smile. “So, murder mystery evening gets serious,” she said. “I guess this isn’t how you two thought this evening would go.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin got to her feet and started to tidy up the tea cups. Strike cleared his throat gruffly. “It wasn’t how I thought this whole trip would go. The case of the poison pen letters just became a murder investigation.”</span>
</p>
<p>“You think they’re related?” Ilsa asked.</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike shrugged. “We have to allow for the possibility.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ilsa nodded. “I guess. Okay, night, guys.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good night,” Robin called over her shoulder, busy stacking cups on the kitchen counter. They rattled with the movement of the train, so she moved around to put them in the little dishwasher.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike sipped his cold, overly milky tea and watched her. This was, indeed, very much not how he had imagined his evening ending. By now he’d have had that gorgeous hair unclipped and running through his fingers, would hopefully even have unzipped that beautiful dress—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin had exited the kitchen area and was coming towards him. She sat down opposite him again and slid her hand across the table, her fingers coming to rest on his forearm. “What are you thinking?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike pulled his thoughts to the case at hand. “Trying to remember who was where,” he replied. “Nick doesn’t reckon she’s been dead more than an hour or so. She’s not completely cold, although that could just be because she’s in bed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin shuddered a little and drew her hand away. She remembered Chloe’s smile, the horse pendant, her enthusiasm…</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey,” Strike said gently, as Robin wiped her eyes. “I’m sorry, I’m so used to discussing these things in plain terms, and Nick’s a doctor, he’s no stranger to death.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m fine,” Robin muttered, feeling a little defensive suddenly. “I can handle it. Nothing wrong with a bit of empathy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A big hand closed over hers. “I know you can,” he replied. “And no, there isn’t. Your empathy makes you a better detective.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin sniffed and let him squeeze her hand, feeling better.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I haven’t seen Chloe all evening,” Strike mused. He sipped his cold tea again, made a face and pushed it aside. He pulled his cigarettes from his pocket, extracted and lit one. “Stuff the rules,” he muttered. “I’ll open some windows.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin smiled shakily and stood to open the window above them. “I saw Chloe earlier, she came to make my bed when I went to freshen up.” She remembered, now, the excitement that had run through her as she applied more lipstick and spritzed Narciso, how she’d imagined her evening might end. Very definitely not like this.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How did she seem?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Upset,” Robin replied, sitting back down. “She said she’d seen something.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike looked at her sharply. “What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She didn’t say. Jenny interrupted us. I didn’t really think anything of it in the moment.” <em>I was distracted</em>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What time was that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“When I went back to my cabin, right after the meal,” Robin said. “As we were all moving through to the lounge.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I went the other way, to smoke,” Strike said, remembering. “I wonder what time Mrs Jones saw her.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And when Waugh gave her the sleeping tablets.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And why,” Strike added. “And what did he mean, the start of the trip was stressful?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There’s something going on with him and Gary,” Robin said. “Tension there.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, I picked up on that too. I saw them arguing in the corridor on my way back from my fag break.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The two detectives sat in silence, deep in thought. Strike smoked, and Robin examined her thumbnail.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“This is going to be a tough one to crack,” Robin said presently.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike shrugged. “Limited number of suspects. And we know who they all are. I’ll ask Waugh for a full passenger list tomorrow.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But anyone could have done it, people were milling everywhere.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike dropped his cigarette end into the dregs of his cold tea with a hiss. “Likely won’t be our problem,” he said. “We’ll have to hand over to local authorities as soon as we get to anywhere.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin’s eyes widened. “The killer could flee.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, we’ll have to keep the train locked till the police take over. We’ll ring ahead when we know where we’re going.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin snorted. “Have you looked at your phone this evening? My signal’s completely gone. Or have you got some magical access to mobile signal in the mountains that I don’t know about?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike grinned. “No. But we will have once we get near civilisation again.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin smiled. “So we’re not going to try to solve it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course we are, Ellacott. When do we not? Just we might have to hand it over before we’re done. No harm in asking a few questions, though.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin nodded, and quiet fell again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you think the lights going out was part of it?” she asked after a few moments.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hard to tell. Could have been part of the murder mystery evening, part of the actual murder, or just a weird coincidence.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin looked down at her hands again, remembering that moment in the lounge, the kiss that had taken her and her big partner sailing over the line they had walked so carefully along for so many months and years. Remembering his hand hot on her thigh, his mouth on hers—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Robin...” Strike slid a hand across the table and took hers gently. She raised her gaze to his, and knew he’d been thinking about the same moment.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Cormoran,” she murmured, closing her fingers around his.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I wonder—” He looked down at their hands, glanced away across the room, hesitated. Then he took a breath and turned back to her. “We have a lot to talk about.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin nodded, a blush stealing across her cheeks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But also a case to solve,” Strike went on. “I honestly can’t remember who was or wasn’t in the lounge when the lights went out. All I remember is—” He broke off and Robin’s blush deepened.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike sighed and started again. “We need to concentrate on sorting this case out,” he said. “At least until we can hand it over. And I always thought, if and when this...us...ever happened, we would focus on that, on working out how...” He trailed off and ran a frustrated hand through his hair.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin squeezed his hand. “I know,” she said gently. “It’s not exactly conducive to relaxing into...whatever, if we’re trying to solve a case too.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike nodded. “We can’t give both full focus. And when the time comes, if it comes, I want to give anything we might be the attention it deserves. Get it right.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin nodded, tears gathering in the back of her eyes again. He was right, he knew it and she knew it. So why did she feel so bereft?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So...friends?” he asked softly, and Robin gave a tremulous smile and nodded.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Friends,” she replied shakily.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike smiled, and picked up her hand and softly kissed the back of it. His lips lingered on her skin, his eyes on hers warm and full of promise.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just for now,” he murmured huskily.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Starting Whistle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Strike was wide awake by five o’clock the following morning, his head buzzing with the case. The familiar thrill of the chase crept over him. Someone on this train had committed murder, and although they would get to the authorities as fast as they could and hand the case over, the fact remained that as long as he didn’t know why the killer had targeted Chloe, others could be in danger.</span>
</p><p>The grey dawn was creeping in through his blinds. He sat up and pulled the string - the advantage of a cabin so tiny, he could reach almost everything from his bed - and gazed in awe at the scenery. They were high in the mountains now, and everything outside the train glittered, frost on snow. Craggy peaks towered above, reaching into the clouds. He could see the long train curving ahead as they tracked a corner, the engine far in front. A valley fell away from the side of the tracks, and dense blue-green pine trees huddled against the sides. Mist filled the valley, hiding its secrets. Strike realised he didn’t even know what country they were in. France still? Switzerland? Italy?</p><p>That hadn’t mattered before, but now they needed to get to the authorities.</p><p>And in the meantime, if he could discover the killer and confine them to their cabin, everyone else would be that bit safer.</p><p>He lay back in bed and allowed his thoughts to drift to Robin. She was sleeping literally feet from him. He’d heard her moving around her cabin after they’d said goodnight.</p><p>If things had been different, she might be here with him now, pressed up against him in the narrow bed. He might know, now, what more than just kissing her was like. He might know everything.</p><p>Hopefully one day he still would. But they needed to crack this case first.</p><p>He rolled out of bed and hopped, hands braced against the walls, to the minuscule en suite toilet and shower room that he’d been managing to use despite the sway of the train simply because it was so tiny, he was practically wedged in place.</p><p>Ten minutes later, he was between cars, leaning against the window to take bracing lungfuls of freezing mountain air and kick-starting lungfuls of his first cigarette of the day. Ten minutes after that, he was sat in the dining car, a purloined mug of coffee in front of him, his notebook open.</p><p>He stared out of the window for some minutes, no longer seeing the incredible scenery, and then picked up his pencil and began to write.</p><p> </p><p>
  <span class="cursive"><span class="u">Main suspects:</span></span>
</p><p>
  <span class="cursive">Jenny - last to see Chloe alive? Discovered body</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="cursive">Gary - boyfriend, argument</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="cursive">Waugh - sleeping tablets - why? Why did he say trip was stressful?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Strike paused, took a slug of his coffee, thought for a moment and carried on writing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span class="cursive"><span class="u">Others who had the opportunity (absent at some point):</span></span>
</p><p>
  <span class="cursive">Mrs Jones (changing shoes, saw Chloe)</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="cursive">Cameron (Robin saw him away from party)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Strike paused again, tapping his pencil against this last point, scowling, then resumed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span class="cursive">Gwendoline and Felicity (putting parrot to bed - possibly each other’s alibis - check)</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="cursive">Simon (engineer, not at party, ask about lighting)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He took another swig of coffee and started a third list.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span class="cursive"><span class="u">Accounted for (check these can be corroborated):</span></span>
</p><p>
  <span class="cursive">Mr Jones</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="cursive">Mary</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="cursive">Driver (name?) (check train doesn’t have automation)</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="cursive">Nick</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="cursive">Ilsa</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="cursive">Robin</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="cursive">Strike</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Here Strike stopped again. He himself had left the party for a cigarette, and anyone else investigating would have placed him on the second list. Robin, too, should technically be a suspect, and would be in any official investigation. All the more reason to get this case solved.</span>
</p><p>He scratched at his stubble that was growing vigorously - he really ought to shave today - and wished he could smoke. He always smoked when he was thinking through a case. He took another gulp of coffee, and turned the page.</p><p> </p><p>
  <span class="cursive"><span class="u">Interviews:</span></span>
</p><p>
  <span class="cursive">Jenny - ask her if Chloe was upset, if she knows what Chloe saw</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="cursive">Gary - tensions etc. Sleeping tablets, why Chloe upset, why were he and Waugh arguing in the corridor?</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="cursive">Waugh - why sleeping tablets, why Chloe upset, why trip difficult, why were he and Gary arguing in the corridor?</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="cursive">Simon - why did the lights go out? Were they tampered with?</span>
</p><p><br/>
The door at the far end of the car opened and Gary came in. He paused in surprise to see Strike sat at a table.</p><p>
  <span>“Morning.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Strike gave him a tight smile. “Morning.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gary looked pale but composed. “Need to start breakfast,” he said. “They’ll all still want feeding.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Strike nodded.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gary eyed him and his notebook as he passed and went into the small kitchen, but said nothing. Strike waited until he heard the clatter of pans, the hiss of the kettle, and turned his focus back to his notes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span class="cursive"><span class="u">Actions:</span></span>
</p><p>
  <span class="cursive">Secure Chloe’s cabin</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="cursive">Get full passenger and crew list, check there’s no one else on board</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="cursive">Manage passengers - Waugh? Robin?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Strike paused again, took his cigarette packet from his pocket, sighed and set it on the table next to him. He sipped his coffee and, more slowly, wrote:</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span class="cursive"><span class="u">Questions:</span></span>
</p><p>
  <span class="cursive">Were the lights a coincidence?</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="cursive">Who knew Chloe had taken sleeping tablets?</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="cursive">Who knew Chloe was in her room?</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="cursive">What to tell the other passengers?</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="cursive">What did Chloe see?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Strike sat back, and flicked back and forth through the pages, trying to see if he had missed anything. Then he carefully copied everything out again more neatly, and tore off this page to slip to Robin. He idly wondered if they still needed to pretend to be strangers now the case had so abruptly shifted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He slipped his notebook, pencil and the folded sheet for Robin into his pocket, picked up his cigarette packet and the remainder of his coffee and set off down the train to find a secluded smoking spot.</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Lula requires extra kudos for formatting the handwriting parts of this, the learning of which took two mornings (work skins and html coding, anyone? 😂) and the posting a good hour. Writing the chapter in the first place was by far the easiest part... 😂</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Picking Up Steam</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Breakfast was a subdued affair.</p><p>Robin arrived in the dining car to find she had just missed Strike. Gary, busy frying eggs in the kitchen, did a double-take when he saw her; Robin hadn’t bothered with Venetia Hall’s brown contact lenses or darker wig this morning.</p><p>“He was already in here when I arrived,” Gary told her. “And I got up early to start breakfast. He’s taken his coffee for a walk.”</p><p>Robin smiled, knowing full well where Strike would be, and looked around. Jenny was noticeably absent, and Gary and Waugh were serving breakfast.</p><p>“I gave her the morning off,” Waugh said, as Robin came up to him. “She turned up for duty as usual, but she looked awful, I’ve never seen anyone so pale. I don’t think she’s slept, poor girl.”</p><p>Robin murmured sympathetically. She wasn’t surprised Jenny hadn’t slept. She hadn’t had that much rest herself, jumping at every creak from the train’s chassis, staring into the darkness and trying not to think about the fact that she was trapped on a train with someone who had murdered a young woman and was still at large. Only the comforting sound of Strike’s snores reverberating through their adjoining wall had soothed her, along with the knowledge that he’d be able to hear her, too, if she were to call out or scream.</p><p>How different things might have been right now if poor Chloe hadn’t been murdered, she couldn’t help musing, after she had turned the possibilities for the case over in her head a hundred different ways and then resolved to try not to think about it. Trying to distract herself from thoughts of murder, she’d deliberately allowed her mind to stray back to Strike and their two searing kisses, both unfinished, that night.</p><p>She’d hoped for some time that something might eventually happen between them, that perhaps the feelings she had buried for so long might somehow be returned, and as soon as they had boarded the train, she’d <i>known</i> it. She and Strike had been on a collision course for the events of the evening.</p><p>And it had not been a disappointment. Again she’d remembered the feel of his stubble against her cheek, the hard wall of his chest under her hands. The way he’d pulled her against him in the corridor, moulding her body to his—</p><p>Drawing a shaky breath, she’d turned over in bed and resolved to try not to think about it any more.</p><p>She helped herself, now, to an orange juice from the table set out by the kitchen, and chose an empty table to sit at. Other passengers were casting her sideways looks and talking in low voices; word had obviously got round that she’d been one of the first on the scene, along with Strike and Nick. She wondered if there was any point in continuing with the pretence that she and Strike didn’t know one another, especially since she was no longer keeping up with her disguise. Would it help or hinder their case to continue acting as strangers?</p><p>Waugh brought her a pot of coffee and gave her a tight smile; Robin thanked him in a low voice and he moved on. This was not the time or the place to begin the investigation, surrounded by anxious, hyper-alert fellow passengers.</p><p>She sipped her coffee and found her thoughts drifting back to last night, to the thrill of Strike’s body pressed against hers. He was huge and broad, so very different from Matthew. Robin had wondered sometimes over the years what it might be like to have sex with someone who wasn’t Matthew. Really, how different could it be, she’d asked herself. It was the same process.</p><p>One kiss with Strike had proven her theory entirely wrong; kissing him had been like nothing she’d ever felt before, a scorching heat that her attraction to him before this had only hinted at.</p><p>“Morning.” Her big partner slid into the seat opposite her, setting down his coffee mug and cigarette packet, and Robin blushed hard.</p><p>“Morning,” she replied, and buried her face in her own coffee cup. Stretching out his long legs, Strike slid a folded piece of paper across the table towards her. Robin picked it up, opened it and began to read.</p><p>“Sleep all right?” Strike eyed her closely, but didn’t mention her flushed cheeks.</p><p>Robin focused on the paper in front of her. “Eventually. You?”</p><p>“Yeah, fine.” Strike paused and grimaced a little. “Sorry, you must think me hard-hearted. Just, you know—”</p><p>“Yeah, used to death and all that,” Robin murmured, glancing up at him.</p><p>He gave a rueful smile. “It’s not just that,” he replied. “It’s also the Army training. No matter what’s going on, you get the chance to sleep, you take it. The shit will all still be there when you wake up.”</p><p>Robin nodded. “Well—” She hesitated. “I’m glad you’re next door, anyway.”</p><p>“Good,” he replied, with a soft smile that made her duck her head back to his notes. “If you need anything, just bang on the wall.” Then he snorted a laugh. “Though not too rhythmically, or I might think you’re Nick and Ilsa.”</p><p>“Cormoran!” Robin couldn’t help laughing even as she blushed again on behalf of their friends. She sneaked another glance at him. “They didn’t? After last night?”</p><p>Strike shrugged. “Not before I fell asleep, that’s all I can attest to,” he said with a wink.</p><p>Robin shook her head. “I can’t believe we’re sitting joking about this, and there’s a dead woman on the train,” she said quietly, folding the paper back up and putting it in her pocket. “What will happen to her?”</p><p>“Tricky,” Strike replied. “I’ll get the heating turned off in there today and the windows open, but still. We need to get her to a proper facility that deals with bodies. Have you eaten?”</p><p>Robin had been thinking about ordering some food, but she felt a little queasy suddenly. She shook her head.</p><p>“Well, I’m having the full English if it’s still on offer,” Strike said. “Can’t solve a case on an empty stomach.”</p><p>Robin wondered if he knew how detached he sounded, and then she remembered Gary saying how early Strike had been up, and she suspected he wasn’t as unaffected as he made out to be. She smiled softly to herself as Strike leaned to catch Waugh’s attention.</p><p>“Rich.”</p><p>Waugh nodded and came over.</p><p>“Is there any way you can get us a full passenger and crew manifesto?” Strike asked him.</p><p>Waugh looked at him suspiciously.</p><p>“For the letters?”</p><p>Strike gave it a moment, and Waugh looked a bit sick. </p><p>“You think what happened with Chloe…”</p><p>“I think we need that list,” reaffirmed Strike, and Waugh sighed, but nodded.  </p><p>“We also need - you need - to work out what to tell the passengers,” Strike went on. Waugh glanced around, and several people hurriedly looked away.</p><p>Waugh sighed again. “I know. Might as well make an announcement while everyone’s here.”</p><p>Strike nodded. “And we’d like to ask some of them a few questions, if that’s all right.” The steel under his words belied his polite tone, and made it quite clear that this wasn’t really a request.</p><p>Waugh looked at him for a long moment, then nodded and went back to the kitchen.</p><p>A quarter an hour or so later, when Strike was tucking heartily into a plate of sausages, bacon, eggs and tomatoes and Robin was nibbling on a piece of toast and marmalade, and the other diners were starting to look around and consider drifting back to their cabins or the lounge car, Waugh emerged from the kitchen with a mug of coffee in his hand and cleared this throat.</p><p>The whole room turned to him, the air of interest spiking palpably.</p><p>“<i>Squawk!</i> Charlie!” Sir Hugo’s sudden, abrasive cry caused several people to jump, then there was an outbreak of laughter, and the tension in the room eased. </p><p>“Right,” Waugh said. “As you know, ladies and gentlemen, we have an unfortunate situation that is, I’m afraid, going to curtail our trip somewhat. We will be rerouting to the nearest major town, and it’s possible we’ll terminate there. Rest assured, we will be offering some kind of compensation or rebooking, but I’m sure you all appreciate that under the circumstances we have no other option.”</p><p>Nods and murmurs rippled across the room.</p><p>“I’m sure you all have lots of questions, and I’m afraid I don’t have many answers for you,” Waugh went on. “All we know for definite is that Chloe was upset, she’s had a few personal problems lately, and she took a couple of sleeping pills and went to bed early.” Here he paused and looked helplessly at Strike.</p><p>Strike stood, and all eyes turned to him. “And it just so happens that my partner and I are private detectives, and it’s fairly standard with an unexpected death to see what we can find out. Who saw Chloe, what she might have been upset about and so on.”</p><p>Waugh nodded. “So Mr Strike and Ms Ellacott would like a word with a few people, if that’s okay, and you’ll notice that we’re rerouting as soon as we have a chance to look at the maps.”</p><p>“We’re just supposed to listen to a couple of strangers?” Mr Jones called out, scowling. Gwendoline sniffed and nodded her head in agreement. </p><p>Strike stepped forward, his height and breadth suddenly noticeable in the small space. </p><p>“I assure you, Ms Ellacott and I are very experienced-”</p><p>“Cormoran Strike!” interrupted Mary. She looked triumphant. “You <i>are</i> a detective; you’ve been in the papers!”</p><p>“Cormoran Strike, the one who solved the Shacklewell Ripper?” asked Felicity, glancing at Robin. “And you’re the investigator he’s in love with,” she finished tremulously.</p><p>“I’m the investigator who’s a partner at the agency,” Robin corrected, and although her smile was kind, her tone was clipped.</p><p>“I can assure you all that both of us are capable and professional. If you’re willing to place your trust in us, we can work together to help Chloe.”</p><p>This seemed to be met with general agreement, and Waugh nodded, glancing around the room again. “I think that’s all for now, thank you. Coffees will be served shortly in the lounge, and I will be on hand to answer as many questions as I can throughout the morning. We appreciate your patience.”</p><p>Waugh gave a tight smile, and went back to the kitchen, and a general murmuring broke out.</p><p>“Everyone’s looking at us,” Robin muttered into the dregs of her coffee.</p><p>Strike shrugged. “They’ll soon stop. Ah, good morning, Herberts. Is it still morning?”</p><p>“Sod off, we’re not that late,” Ilsa replied breezily. “We’re on holiday. Shove up.”</p><p>Strike obligingly moved to the window seat, and Ilsa sat down next to him. Nick sat next to Robin, who also moved over to make room.</p><p>“How goes it?” he asked, sliding a hand around the coffee pot and, finding it still acceptably hot, pouring himself and Ilsa a cup.</p><p>“Not started yet,” Strike replied. “Rich is going to get us a full passenger and crew list.”</p><p>Ilsa looked around. “There can’t be anyone we haven’t met yet.”</p><p>“And we shouldn’t assume that,” Strike said. His brows drew together. “I’m not sure on the legality surrounding searching of cabins, what we can and can’t touch, and interviewing people.”</p><p>Ilsa sighed. </p><p>“It’s not easy. Chloe’s cabin and personal property are off-limits; that’s a given. The travel documents that everyone agreed to when booking the trip, electronically or otherwise, follow standard operating procedure in terms of criminal activity. Cabins can be searched with proof of criminal offence, and Waugh retains the right to hold any passenger who is proven dangerous, under Rail Regulatory Law. The trouble here is that you can’t prove what happened with Chloe is on the wrong side of the law.”</p><p>“Yet,” put in Robin, earning a grin from Strike. Ilsa nodded at her.</p><p>“Until that point, you can only ask. If people refuse, you can’t go farther without a warrant. You’ll just have to hope most people agree to cooperate. Maybe Waugh can help encourage reluctant passengers, if you run into any resistance.”</p><p>Strike and Robin exchanged a look, thinking, and Robin leaned forwards. “Did you notice Waugh say—?”</p><p>“—that Chloe had had a few personal problems? Yeah, I did.”</p><p>“I wonder what he meant.”</p><p>“And how he knows,” Strike added. “I’ll put it on the list of questions to ask him.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Bells and Whistles</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Robin shut her suitcase and pulled a cardigan on over her blouse, shivering. As they continued to pass through the Alps, gaining altitude, the air kept growing colder. She paused a moment, gazing out of the window at the beautiful scenery that slid past steadily, oblivious to the scenes playing out on the train passing through.</p><p>The mood among the passengers was tense. Everyone had mostly headed back to their cabins after breakfast, throwing furtive glances at each other before leaving the dining car in a slow trickle of mutual suspicion. Robin knew things would settle down, but the morning had been an extremely long one, and she would have loved a few moments alone here in her cabin.</p><p>Instead, she made her way back to the lounge car, where she was meeting Jenny for chat. It was a place to get started; the first person on Strike’s list.</p><p>Jenny gave her a small wave from where she was sitting, a cup of tea in front of her. Robin fixed herself her own cup from the drinks cart parked in the corner and sat down across from Jenny. They both looked at the trees rushing past out the window, with their deep green branches dusted with drifts of snow, and Robin thought of Chloe’s body, cold in her cabin, and shivered.</p><p>She looked back at Jenny to see silent tears running in clear tracks down her cheeks, and Robin immediately reached her hand across and squeezed Jenny’s fingers.</p><p>“Jenny, I’m so incredibly sorry.”</p><p>Jenny nodded, sniffing and wiping away tears. She pulled a tissue from the box on the table and wiped her face with it, crumpling it in her hand.</p><p>“I just can’t believe it, you know? Like I keep expecting her to show up, and tell everyone she slept in.”</p><p>Robin nodded. “Were the two of you close?”</p><p>Jenny nodded again.</p><p>“Yeah. I mean. She’s one of my closest friends; we took the hospitality course together a few years ago and got hired on for this trip at the same time. We were so excited; it’s been hotels until now. She thought it was a really lucky break.”</p><p>Jenny let out a bitter snort, and her face crumpled again.</p><p>“Sorry,” she mumbled into the tissue, but Robin shook her head, and murmured that it was fine. She waited until the girl had composed herself.</p><p>“Jenny, I said earlier I’d like to ask you some questions. Is that still all right?”</p><p>Jenny nodded.</p><p>“Whatever I can do to help.”</p><p>“You were in the dining car all evening, so you don’t have to worry too much about that side of things; we have quite a few people who can account for your whereabouts the entire evening.”</p><p>Jenny’s eyes were wide as she listened.</p><p>“What I really wanted to speak with you about was that moment when you popped in to check on Chloe doing up my cabin, and I was there, do you remember?”</p><p>Jenny sniffed.</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“Chloe seemed a bit shaken and upset. She told me that she thought she might have seen something, but she was hesitant to tell me about it and she didn’t offer any specifics.”</p><p>Robin was watching Jenny’s face, but the girl looked completely clueless.</p><p>“Do you have any idea what she might have meant? What she might have seen?”</p><p>Jenny slowly shook her head.</p><p>“Nooo. No, I really don’t. She seemed a bit jumpy, but she’s always been a bit nervous about things, and I just thought, with the big murder mystery event going on…”</p><p>Jenny paused, her lip wobbling.</p><p>“After you left, I asked if she was okay, and she said she was, and that was that. I helped her do up the cabin, and came straight back to the dining car. That was - that was the last time I saw her-”</p><p>Jenny buried her face in her hands again, overcome. Robin pulled another tissue out of the box and handed it to her, and then, reached forward and gave the girl’s hand a comforting squeeze. Jenny looked up.</p><p>“I’m sorry, I’m such a mess.”</p><p>“That’s completely understandable. No need to apologise.”</p><p>Jenny took a shaky breath, twisting the tissues in her hands.</p><p>“Is that everything? May I go?”</p><p>Robin nodded, giving her a kind smile.</p><p>“That’s everything. Thanks, Jenny.”</p><p>The young woman stood, taking her mug of tea, and with a last sad, half-smile at Robin, left the lounge car.</p><p>*****</p><p>Strike, meanwhile, was attempting without much success to glean information from Gary.</p><p>Insisting that lunch preparations couldn’t be delayed, Gary carried on working in the galley kitchen, leaving Strike to stand at the bar, his hip wedged uncomfortably to try to keep the swaying of the train from lurching his weight repeatedly onto his prosthetic leg, asking questions that Gary was well able to turn away from under the pretence of reaching for another ingredient or stirring another pan. It was hardly ideal, and ordinarily Strike would have refused to conduct an interview under such circumstances. But he had little sway here, sensing the resistance of several people to his intention to conduct an investigation, and besides, the train had completely lost one assistant and the other was being interviewed and probably, in Strike’s view, wasn’t currently much use when she was available. So Gary had to plough on, making all the lunches alone.</p><p>“How long have you and Chloe been together?”</p><p>“A year or so.”</p><p>“How did you meet?”</p><p>Gary cast him a sideways glance. “How’s that relevant?”</p><p>Strike shrugged. “Humour me.”</p><p>Gary went back to slicing vegetables. “I was cheffing at a hotel in central London. She was restaurant staff.”</p><p>“One of the fancy ones?”</p><p>“No, a chain. Crowne Plaza.”</p><p>“I imagine your skills were a bit wasted there.”</p><p>Gary chuckled, the first sign of anything other than melancholy he’d shown since the events of the previous evening, and then his face slipped to sadness again as though remembering. Watching, Strike decided this was either genuine emotion, or the man was a damn good actor.</p><p>“I had my moments.”</p><p>“How did you end up here, then?”</p><p>“I’ve known Rich ages. He managed a couple of these trips that I cheffed on, for other companies. He used to joke he was going to set up his own business one day and poach me. Then I got the call.”</p><p>“Were you surprised?”</p><p>“Nah. He always seemed like a go-getter. I figured he’d work out a way to do it.”</p><p>“So you two get on well?”</p><p>“Yeah, pretty much.”</p><p>“And he made you second in command for the trip?”</p><p>Gary shrugged, reaching for spices, stirring a pan. “Somebody has to be.”</p><p>“But you work well together,” Strike pressed. “You must do, for him to make you second in command.” The train leaned around a corner and his leg protested; gripping the bar, he shifted his weight a little, wishing he could sit.</p><p>“Yeah, we’ve worked together a lot over the years.”</p><p>“Why were you arguing the other night?”</p><p>Gary’s hand stilled, then resumed stirring. “We weren’t arguing.” He turned away, bent to reach into the fridge and produced a pot of cream.</p><p>“Looked like it to me.”</p><p>Gary shrugged. He turned the heat down under the pan, which Strike had by now decided must contain soup, and pulled the foil lid from the pot of cream. He drizzled a swirl into the concoction, stirring more gently now.</p><p>“Gary?”</p><p>The chef shrugged. “We disagreed about the menu.”</p><p>“The menu?” Strike had to work hard to keep a hefty dose of scepticism from his voice.</p><p>“It happens.”</p><p>“So tell me about this culinary disagreement.”</p><p>As though sensing he wasn’t being believed, Gary cast Strike a sideways glance. “I told him the steaks he picked up in Paris aren’t good enough to serve as steaks, we’re going to have to use them for a stew, change the menu. He took it badly. Not my fault he didn’t check them.”</p><p>Strike perused his notebook, thinking. The truth, or a well and swiftly invented lie? He decided to change tack.</p><p>“Why was Chloe upset the night she died?”</p><p>Gary sighed, and turned the gas ring below the soup down low. He turned back to the fridge, busying himself assembling salad ingredients. Strike wondered how much of this was stalling for time.</p><p>“We had an argument,” the chef replied eventually.</p><p><em>Good move, admit to it,</em> Strike thought. <em>Seeing as it was pretty public.</em> “What about?”</p><p>Gary shrugged. “You know, couples stuff. Is it relevant?”</p><p>“It might be,” Strike replied mildly.</p><p>“Well, you know. She was one of those girls that likes to know everything, you know? ‘Where are you, who are you with, what are you thinking? Who’s in the pub with you? Any girls?’”</p><p>Charlotte rose like a spectre in the back of Strike’s mind, and was firmly banished. “Can’t be easy.”</p><p>“No,” Gary replied shortly.</p><p>“But an odd thing to argue about here. She knows exactly where you are and who you’re with, the whole time. You’re practically in each other’s pockets.” And now he was thinking about Robin, and how much time he spent in her easy company— <em>Focus, Strike.</em></p><p>Gary shrugged. “It was an ongoing issue for us.”</p><p>“Did she mention seeing anything?”</p><p>Gary glanced up. “Like what?”</p><p>Strike shrugged. “She told my partner she’d seen something, something that appeared to have upset her. She didn’t say what.”</p><p>Gary looked blank, and shook his head. “No.”</p><p>Strike had the sense that he was being told the truth for the first time in this entire conversation.</p><p>“Why do you think Waugh gave her sleeping tablets?”</p><p>Gary scowled, and swung back to his salad preparation. “How would I know?”</p><p>“Odd thing to do, if she had her own.”</p><p>Gary cut cucumber swiftly, the knife blade slicing through the delicate flesh almost too fast to be seen, a blur of cold steel. “I guess it was.”</p><p>“He must know her quite well to give her medication. Are they close?”</p><p>Gary laid the knife down with a clatter. “Are we done here? I’ve got a lot of food to prepare and no assistants.”</p><p>Strike closed his notebook. “Sure. I’ll just grab a coffee, if that’s okay?”</p><p>“Help yourself,” Gary replied shortly, and turned back to his cooking.</p><p>*****</p><p>Nick sat down across from Robin, and they both took a grateful sip of tea. He studied her from over the rim of his mug.</p><p>“All right?”</p><p>She wrapped her fingers around the mug, sighing.</p><p>“Yeah. It’s just been…”</p><p>She thought of Chloe’s tears, and her body, lying eerily still in the cabin. Of the look on Strike’s face as they spoke about the moments they had shared during the murder mystery evening. The loaded tension between Waugh and Gary. The strange letters.</p><p>“Been a lot,” finished Nick softly, still watching her, and Robin was immensely grateful, in that moment, for the warmth and understanding in her friend’s face.</p><p>He sat back, and took a folded piece of paper out of his wallet. “Oggy got a print out of the passenger and crew manifesto, thought you’d like to take a look.”</p><p>Robin pulled it towards her and began to look at it, and Nick continued.</p><p>“Something a bit odd: Chloe’s mobile is missing. It wasn’t on the body. Nowhere in her suitcase, or the cabin. She definitely had one; Jenny and Gary confirmed it.”</p><p>Robin bit her lip, thinking.</p><p>“So it’s been taken. Possibly entirely disposed of; somebody could have tossed it out a window. That’s deliberate. The question is, why?” She shook her head, frustrated. “And we lost all signal last night, so it’s no use calling the number.”</p><p>Robin passed down the list of crew names in front of her, piecing together what she knew. Gary. Jenny. Simon, whom she knew was an engineer. David.</p><p>She looked up.</p><p>“David must be - the driver?”</p><p>“Yeah. He and Simon split shifts.”</p><p>“Well, Cormoran was chatting with Simon on the night on the murder, which means David was driving the train. Which rules him out as the murderer, pretty much.”</p><p>She looked back at the list and felt a pang as she read Chloe’s name.</p><p>“Poor Chloe.”</p><p>She looked closer, then quickly back up at Nick.</p><p>“This train’s name is the <em>Lady Amelia</em>.”</p><p>Nick gave her a slow nod. “I believe so, yeah.”</p><p>Robin tapped on the paper in front of her.</p><p>“Chloe’s full, legal name, is Chloe <em>Amelia</em> Evans.”</p><p>She stood up.</p><p>“I think I have to find Waugh, and let him convince me why this train sharing a name with Chloe is pure coincidence.”</p><p>Nick’s eyes widened. “Do you think it is?”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Mixed Signals</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Robin was unable to share her discovery about Chloe’s middle name with Strike over dinner. The dining car was compact, and the two detectives under close scrutiny. Murmured conversations from the other passengers still allowed snatches of conversation to reach them, muttering of Chloe’s name, theories being bandied about.</span>
</p>
<p>They enjoyed a muted dinner with the Herberts, keeping the conversation low and away from their various findings today. People drifted away in small groups, but a few stayed in the dining car, lingering over coffees, and a scattering more ended up in the lounge, chatting in low voices. Finding time to talk, to share discoveries and theories, was going to be difficult. Robin decided to set an early alarm and try to catch Strike before breakfast, hoping he’d be up as early tomorrow as he had been today. It was likely; how many times had he emailed her theories at five o’clock in the morning when his brain was running full tilt at a case? Whereas she tended to do her best thinking lying in bed at night.</p>
<p>And so it was this evening. Wearing the silk pyjamas she’d bought for the trip in a moment of romanticism, plus the jumper she’d started wearing to bed because the nights were so cold up here in the mountains that she’d woken in the early hours to pull it on the last couple of nights, Robin lay wrapped in her blankets, comforted by the rocking of the train, staring up into the darkness and thinking. She kept remembering things to ask Waugh tomorrow, and reaching for her phone to add herself another note; she was becoming, if anything, more awake.</p>
<p>Through the wall she heard Strike turn over in bed, and suddenly realised that she couldn’t hear the usual steady rumble of his snoring. He was awake too.</p>
<p>Trying not to think too hard about what she was doing, but her heart rate picking up nonetheless, Robin rolled out of bed. She opened her cabin door quietly, key card in hand, and stepped in woolly-socked feet out into the corridor. Strike’s door was just along from hers; she tapped on it softly.</p>
<p>
  <span>There was a pause, a moment of loaded silence, and then she heard the creak of his bed and the click of the door. It opened to reveal Strike, dimly lit, sat on his bed and reaching across to the door handle. He blinked at her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry,” Robin whispered. “Er, can I come in? Wanted to discuss the case, we haven’t had a chance all evening and my head is buzzing.”</span>
</p>
<p>Strike gave her a soft grin. “Mine too,” he replied in a low voice. “Come in. Er—”</p>
<p>“Don’t mind me,” Robin said, cheeks pink. She slipped into the cabin and squeezed down past him while Strike closed the door.</p>
<p>There was nowhere to sit other than on the end of the bed. She perched as little of her bottom as she comfortably could on it, aware that the reason the space existed was because of Strike’s missing lower limb under the blankets. His prosthetic stood behind her, leaning against the wall.</p>
<p>They were lit only by a dim wall lamp, and Strike was in bed. Robin was suddenly acutely conscious of her slim silk pyjama trousers. The cabin seemed to shrink as they looked at one another and Robin determinedly ignored her big partner’s messy hair, his forearms resting on his lap, his T-shirt stretched across his torso—</p>
<p>
  <span>“So—” she began, and Strike, smiling, waved to shush her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Paper-thin walls,” he muttered, indicating the wall that lay to the other side of him from Robin’s cabin. Listening for a moment, Robin could hear the sleepy murmuring of the Herberts next door. She couldn’t make out any words, just the timbre of voices, but it was enough for her to know that they’d be able to hear that she was in Strike’s cabin if she spoke aloud.</span>
</p>
<p>“So,” she repeated in a whisper. “I found out today that Chloe’s middle name is Amelia.”</p>
<p>Strike’s eyebrows shot up. “The name of the train?”</p>
<p>“Exactly. That can’t be an accident?”</p>
<p>“It’s quite some coincidence if it is.”</p>
<p>Robin nodded. “So it must mean something. But what?”</p>
<p>Strike rasped a hand across his stubbled chin, not noticing in the dim light Robin following his movements. “Well, the obvious answer is Waugh named the train after her.”</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin screwed up her face a little. “Why? Are they related to each other? Sleeping together?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t think they can be related. Rich would have said, surely? But if they were having an affair, he might well not have told us, seeing as she has a boyfriend—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“—who’s Waugh’s mate and second in command on the trip—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“—exactly, and Waugh has a wife.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin thought for a moment. “It could just be a coincidence. She could have applied for the job because the train had her name. Or she could have stood out from other candidates in Waugh’s mind because of the connection.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“True.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Worth asking him, though.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Definitely.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How did you get on with Gary?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike sighed, frustrated. “Cagey. He was holding back, I’m sure of it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“In what way?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Swiftly, his voice a low, hypnotic murmur, Strike filled Robin in on his conversation with the reluctant chef.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You think he was lying about the argument with Waugh?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike snorted. “Doesn’t sound likely, does it? A row away from the others, hiding what they were discussing, about menu choices?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin pulled a face. “I guess. Though Gary thought you were just a passenger then. Unless Waugh told him about us. I’ll add that to the list of things to ask him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Anything from Jenny?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin shook her head. “No. She’s genuinely upset, has no idea what happened. She says she doesn’t know what Chloe saw, and I believe her. And she has a cast-iron alibi, she was waitressing and clearing up all evening in the dining car. She can’t have had time to even pop to the loo, let alone commit a murder while she was away.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“True. She’s off the suspect list, then.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What else have you got?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike reached down his notebook from the shelf above his bed and peered at it in the dim light. “I spoke to Simon, the engineer, and David, the driver. They’re pretty much each other’s alibis,” he told her. “Simon admitted to messing with the lights, but he says he did it just for fun, to spice up the murder mystery evening. He assumed the fake murder would be later, which is why he missed Mr Jones’s stellar performance—” Strike grinned at Robin’s giggle here “—and inadvertently got the approximate time of the real murder. But he was in and out of the engine cabin, chatting to David, bringing him tea, subbing him for a bathroom trip which really wasn’t long enough to be suspicious given the time it would have taken to walk the entire length of the train - not to mention getting through the dining and lounge cars without being noticed - and get all the way back. I don’t see how either of them could have done it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Or why,” Robin mused, then shot her partner a sharp look. “I know, I know, means before motive.” She paused, thinking. “We can ask if anyone saw either of them during the evening. But you’re right, it does sound like we can rule them both out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So that leaves us with Gary, Waugh, the parrot ladies and Cameron.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And Mrs Jones,” added Robin. “And we need to double check that the others are accounted for.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nick’s pretty sure Mary wasn’t away long enough. She was trying to harangue him with her elaborate murder theories for a good portion of the evening, apparently. She was quite determined to prove to him that it was, in fact, his character who had committed the murder, and the game was wrong.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin smiled fondly. “And I bet he was super patient with her.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike stared at his notebook, thinking. Robin watched him for a moment.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Theories?”</span>
</p>
<p>He sighed. “I think Gwendoline and Felicity are likely to be each other’s alibis like Simon and David. And Mrs Jones was unlikely to have been away long enough if she only went to change her shoes, and the Joneses’ cabin is towards the front of the train anyway. I think we’re looking at Waugh, Gary or Cameron.”</p>
<p>
  <span>“You really think Waugh would have done it? On the maiden voyage of his own new venture?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Seems unlikely, doesn’t it?” Strike paused, thinking again. “But I don’t think this was planned. It feels opportunistic. She just happened to go to bed early, nobody could have engineered that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Except Waugh, he sent her.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“True. But could he have known she’d be upset?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If he was the one who upset her.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But he was with us, running the mystery evening, while she was off preparing cabins. Plus there’s the missing mobile, that’s a big red flag.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I wonder what she saw,” Robin mused.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, I think that might be key.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Silence fell. Next door they could hear the Herberts still softly chatting. Robin remembered the way Nick had looked at Ilsa this evening, slid his arm around her, kissed her cheek, and her heart ached. She wondered if Strike was that demonstrative a lover.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We need to wrap this up,” her partner was saying.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin blinked. “What? How come?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Waugh has picked us a destination. Some little town I can’t pronounce. He’s radioed ahead and told them of our situation, so they’ll have police ready. We should get there either late tomorrow or early the next day, depending on the weather.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The weather?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There are a few snow storms predicted in the area, apparently. If it snows too hard we’ll have to crawl along.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin nodded. “Right, then. So we’ve got one day to solve this.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yup.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll speak to Waugh right after breakfast.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And I’ll check all the lesser suspects have alibis, and then we can try and tackle Cameron and the mad parrot women after lunch.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin giggled. “‘Mad parrot women.’”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike snorted. “Well, they are.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin stood, reaching out a hand to steady herself on the wall. “I’d better head back to bed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay.” Was she imagining a sudden huskiness to his voice?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll see you in the morning.” The cabin seemed tiny again all of a sudden, Strike’s gaze dark and inscrutable in the dim light.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Night,” he murmured.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin stepped forward, and swayed a little as the train rattled, grabbing for the door handle and missing. Just like in the dining car last night, Strike’s hand found her waist, steadying her, and then she was balanced again and standing looking down at him, her breath quickening as the heat from his hand through the silk of her pyjamas spread rapidly across her skin, urged on by the delicate rub of his thumb across her hip.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Their eyes clashed in the dim light, and Robin wouldn’t have had to bend very far at all to press her lips to his, to slide her hand under the neckline of his soft grey T-shirt and find the muscle and hair beneath. His thumb still moved in slow, mesmerising circles, drifting up now to the soft skin above her waistband, under her jumper and the slippery silk of her pyjama top.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Robin...” Strike murmured, and she forgot their promise, their agreement to put whatever was sparking between them on hold and wait until after the case was concluded. There was only his dark, dark eyes and the touch of his hand on her skin as she leaned towards him—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A soft thud through the adjoining wall distracted the two detectives from one another. Robin lifted her head, startled, but Strike gave a low grumble of annoyance, dropping his hand away from her skin that continued to glow as though he were still touching her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Bloody Herberts,” he muttered. “You’d think they could give it a rest for one sodding night.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her cheeks flooding with colour, Robin recognised the gentle, rhythmic thuds coming through the wall. “God, that really doesn’t leave much to the imagination.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike grinned ruefully. “Nope. I’m going to have to start timing them and giving Nick marks out of ten over breakfast. That might shut them up.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Giggling, Robin smiled down at him. “Luckily I can’t hear them,” she said, willing her voice to sound normal and the heat coiling deep in her body to abate. “I’ll leave you to it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Gee, thanks,” Strike drawled drily, and with a cheeky grin that took his breath away, Robin slipped out of the door and was gone, leaving the frustrated Strike with a memory of the unbelievable softness of her skin tingling at his fingertips and an ache of arousal that really wasn’t helped by having to listen to his friends indulge in an activity that right now he’d have given just about anything to be enjoying with Robin.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Excess Baggage</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Robin had hoped to have a clear window to speak to Waugh without any listening ears, but it was difficult to organise. He seemed to share his office at the front of the train with Simon the maintenance guy, and she didn’t particularly want to have to squeeze into his room to interview him. Like the cabins she and Strike occupied towards the back of the train, Waugh’s was compact; the more luxurious and spacious first class carriages either side of the dining and lounge cars had been reserved for the likes of Cameron, who clearly wasn’t short of money, and Gwendoline and Felicity and the Joneses.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Half the lounge car was the best she could manage. They sat in a far corner, coffees between them, and Robin scanned through her notes that she knew off by heart already, wondering where to start.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What did you mean when you said the start of the trip had been stressful?” was the opening question she chose, and right away Waugh was gazing out of the window at the jagged rocks and nestled pines, and Robin sensed a lie being formed. Matthew had never quite been able to look her in the eye when he was lying to her. She’d become good at spotting his subterfuge once she started to look for it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just, you know,” Waugh replied. “It’s the maiden voyage, I wanted to be sure I had everything right and it would go well.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Any reason why it shouldn’t?” Robin asked, her voice deceptively casual.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not particularly.” Waugh picked up his coffee and buried his face in it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nothing to do with your argument with Gary, the chef, then?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Waugh set his cup back down. “Why would I argue with Gary?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin shrugged. “You tell me. Strike said he saw you having an argument.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, yeah, that.” Waugh glanced at her and away again. “It was nothing to do with...all this.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Care to tell me what it was to do with?” Robin picked up her own coffee and sipped it, let the silence hang.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Waugh shifted a little in his seat. “That was just logistical stuff.”</span>
</p>
<p>“Such as?”</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, he’s my second in command, isn’t he? We had a, er, disagreement about the route.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“About the route?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah. He’d heard reports that the weather wasn’t looking great, felt we should abandon the high mountain route and stick to the foothills. I told him that would slow us down by at least a day, and besides, this trip promises breathtaking scenery, it’s the main selling point in the brochure. But he disagreed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did he?” Robin carefully wrote this down, wondering which man was lying about the reason for the argument, and why.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He thinks he knows best, because he’s done these routes more than me. But I’ve spent months looking at the maps—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why was Chloe upset the night she died?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Waugh shrugged. “You’d have to ask Gary that. They were always bickering, I don’t know why they stayed together.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you know what they quarrelled about?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, he was quite controlling, I think. Didn’t want her hanging out with her friends, wanted her to want to spend all her time with him. That kind of thing.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin thought briefly of Matthew, and how she’d had to account for her every move, justify every late night at work. “And did she resent that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, wouldn’t you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin scratched at her chin a little, still looking at her notes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And she told you, her boss, all of this?” she asked, her voice still casual, but watching him carefully.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Waugh opened and closed his mouth, spots of colour on his cheeks. “Well, you know, I knew her quite well,” he said finally. “I take care of my staff, and we met sometimes as a four while we were planning this trip, me and Stella - my wife - and Gary and Chloe.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin nodded, and made another note. What wasn’t Waugh saying?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why did you give her the sleeping tablets?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Waugh seemed on firmer ground here. “She was really upset, she was quite the worrier. I knew— I felt she’d be better after a good night’s sleep, so I gave her the night off and a couple of my sleeping tablets to take, and told her to get some rest.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did you go with her to her cabin?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, I had to start the evening entertainment.”</span>
</p>
<p>“So when did you last see her?”</p>
<p>
  <span>Waugh looked blank for a moment. “Um... before we served the coffees and desserts, and revealed the murderer.” He grimaced. “The fake murderer. The one in the game.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin nodded. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And after that...?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I was in the dining car all evening. We finished the night off and I helped Gary and Jenny tidy up, because we were a staff member short with no Chloe.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And they were both with you all the time?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mostly.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They were or they weren’t?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Gary went off to smoke at one point. He thinks I don’t know he’s smoking on the train, but I can smell it on him. And Simon.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And you could smell it on him that night when he got back?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Waugh hesitated. “I don’t specifically recall, but I assumed that’s where he went, so I think I would have noticed if he hadn’t.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin nodded and made a note. “And Jenny was with you the whole time?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes. No. She took the bins down.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Bins?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We have a storage car at the back of the train for all the rubbish and so on, we collect it up until we get to the next station.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And was she gone long?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, that was the end of the night. Next thing we knew, she’d found Chloe. She must have checked on her on the way back. They shared a cabin.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin looked at her notes. So the three hadn’t been together all evening. Was it possible Waugh could have followed Jenny and killed Chloe while she was putting away the rubbish, and escaped back to the dining car before the body was discovered? Or could Jenny have killed Chloe and then calmly gone on with the rubbish? Nick had said he estimated Chloe had been dead an hour or so, but how accurate was that assessment? And hadn’t he said that later?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Chloe told me she thought she’d seen something.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Waugh’s shrug looked, to Robin, too carefully casual. “She didn’t mention anything to me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin took a swig of her coffee, and flicked her notebook back and forth. Something in all of this didn’t quite add up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So, let me get this straight,” she said slowly. “You’re saying Chloe had a row with her boyfriend, even though she told me she thought she’d seen something that upset her. Then she decided, rather than going to her roommate and friend Jenny, to come to you, Gary’s boss, to tell you she was upset. You gave her sleeping tablets as a solution to this and sent her to her cabin, where she was later found dead.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Waugh swallowed. “That’s right.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin had saved her trump card for last. “And all this occurred on a train you named after her.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was a long pause. She fixed Waugh with a steely glare, saw the panic slide cross his face, saw him trying to hunt down the holes in his story. Suddenly he looked exactly like Matthew, trying to work out what Robin knew and what she didn’t, what other lie might work instead.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It clicked into place. “You were sleeping with her,” she said suddenly. “That’s why she was upset. That’s why you argued with Gary, because he knew, or at least suspected. That’s why this trip was stressful, at least partly.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His eyes darting around the room, Waugh had already hesitated too long.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So was it a crime of passion, then, either on your part or Gary’s?” Robin mused. A chill ran down her spine as she suddenly wondered if she was sat here having coffee with a man who had recently murdered a young woman in cold blood, drugging her and later suffocating her, and she wondered where Strike was.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No!” Waugh cried, and Robin felt rather than saw the sudden attention of the Joneses who were sat at the other end of the lounge car, a pot of tea between them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Waugh leaned forward and dropped his voice, earnest now. “No, I swear,” he insisted. “Okay, I was sleeping with her, I admit that. But I would never have hurt her, never!” His eyes were on hers for the first time in the entire interview, willing her to believe him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin did believe him, but she mistrusted her instincts where a man lying to her was concerned. Either way, she needed to press on.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So who did? Gary?”</span>
</p>
<p>“No,” Waugh said at once. “He loved her.”</p>
<p>
  <span>“Were you arguing over her?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Waugh sighed. “Yes, but Gary didn’t know, not for definite. He couldn’t have. We were so careful. We weren’t spending any time together this trip, we’d agreed. He was just throwing accusations around. He was always accusing her of sleeping with this friend or that friend, it was nothing new.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So why did she come to you when she was upset?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Waugh sighed again and sat back, his gaze returning to the long valley spread out below the tracks. “It was about something else,” he said eventually. “Nothing to do with Gary. But I couldn’t risk him seeing us together, and we were so busy with the mystery evening. I told her to take a couple of tablets and go to bed, and see me in the morning.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“About what?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s not relevant.”</span>
</p>
<p>Robin fixed him with a steely stare. “How about I decide what’s relevant?”</p>
<p>
  <span>Waugh set his jaw and said nothing, gazing out of the window again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He needed a final push. Robin leaned forward.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’d better tell me, and truthfully,” she said, her voice low and even. “Because within a couple of hours she was dead, of asphyxiation, Nick thinks, and her mobile is missing. Make no mistake, Waugh, this is a murder investigation, and as the supplier of the sleeping tablets that aided in her being overpowered, you’re currently our most likely suspect.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Waugh looked at her, and back out of the window, and back to Robin again, his jaw working, and then he seemed to deflate.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay,” he said, “but I promise it isn’t relevant. It might not even be true, I haven’t been able to check, but this mustn’t get out. I could lose my business.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her heart beating faster, Robin forced herself to sound calm and even. “Go on.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Chloe thought she’d found drugs, when she was sorting out the cabins that evening, turning beds down. A lot of drugs, a small caseful in a cupboard when she was looking for a spare pillow. She said she’d found a case and opened it, and there were loads of packets in it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin blinked, assimilating this new evidence. “What did she do?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nothing. She put everything back as she found it and came straight to me to tell me. I told her she must have been wrong, that I’d check the next day, but she was hysterical, saying her fingerprints would be on the case. I had to calm her down and I had no time to deal with her and I didn’t want Gary to see us...” He trailed off and sighed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why was she even going through passengers’ cases?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, this was the thing. The case was a woman’s one, pink with purple flowers, she said.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She thought it had been put in the wrong room.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It was in Cameron’s cabin.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Stuck</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Strike set the flowery case down on the desk in Waugh’s cramped office with a soft thud. It was clearly heavy, weighed down by its contents. Robin eyed the item. It was too small to be a useful suitcase. Some sort of vanity case, perhaps.</p>
<p>Strike and Waugh and Robin were squeezed into the little space. They had taken advantage of the passengers all being assembled in the dining car for lunch. Using Waugh’s master key, Strike had conducted a swift search of Cameron’s cabin while Robin kept watch. Strike hadn’t mentioned the plan to Ilsa; he hadn’t been sure he wanted to know the legality before he started, and had been relying on the ends justifying the means.</p>
<p>“Chloe was a good witness, this was exactly where she’d described,” Strike said now. Trying to touch the case as little as possible, avoiding the handle with his gloved hands, he used a pencil grabbed from a pot Blu-Tacked to the desk to flick open the catches. He gingerly lifted the lid, and Robin and Waugh leaned forward.</p>
<p>Exactly as Chloe had said, the little case was full of row after row of packets of what looked to be white powder. They all stared for a few moments. Strike gently poked at the top few packets, moving them aside with a gloved finger to confirm that more lay beneath. He gave a low whistle.</p>
<p>“That’s quite some haul.”</p>
<p>“What is it?” Robin asked.  </p>
<p>Strike shrugged. “Most likely cocaine, could be heroin or something else,” he replied. “That’ll be a matter for the police, not us.” He closed the case again with a click. “Got somewhere safe to stash this, Rich?”</p>
<p>Waugh nodded. “I’ll lock it in one of the storage spaces above the cabins here,” he said. “And we won’t tell anyone where it is. Only the three of us know.”</p>
<p>“And it was in with Cameron’s things?” Robin asked thoughtfully.</p>
<p>“It was in a high cupboard above the bed, along with spare blankets and pillows,” Strike replied.</p>
<p>“So it had been hidden?”</p>
<p>“Looked like it. There was nothing else of his in that cupboard, and nothing else odd in his cabin, all looked fairly normal.”</p>
<p>“Interesting case for a guy,” Robin mused, eyeing the sprigs of purple flowers - stylised lavender, possibly - against the pale pink background.</p>
<p>“Plausible deniability?” Strike suggested.</p>
<p>“Or it might genuinely not be his.”</p>
<p>“Only one way to find out,” Strike replied. “I’ll set up an interview with him this afternoon. I’ll take the lead on this one.” And his jaw set with an air of obstinacy and antagonism that Robin recognised. She’d sensed that her big partner didn’t like the chipper young man, and she couldn’t think why. Why did men take such sudden dislike to one another, she vaguely wondered.</p>
<p>“I’ll join you,” she said. “I’ve spent a bit of time with him, he might open up more if I’m there.”</p>
<p>“Hm,” was Strike’s only reply.</p>
<p>A knock interrupted them; Strike turned to stand between desk and door, hiding the case with his bulk. The door opened and Simon’s head appeared.</p>
<p>“Is Rich—? Ah,” he said, catching sight of Waugh. “We’re going to take the speed right down, boss. It’s coming down pretty heavily out there.”</p>
<p>The occupants of the office glanced with surprise out of the window. It was indeed snowing hard, the fresh falling flakes blanketing everything in a coating of white that glowed under the sunlight trying to break through the clouds. It was breathtakingly beautiful.</p>
<p>“Right,” Waugh replied. “Good plan. Will we be able to keep going after dark?”</p>
<p>Simon shrugged. “Depends how much more snow we get.”</p>
<p>“Try to keep going if you can,” Rich told him. “We won’t make it to the station tonight now if we have to cut the speed back, but we should still get there by morning as long as we keep moving.”</p>
<p>“Yes, boss.” And with a grin, Simon was gone, closing the door behind him.</p>
<p>“Right,” Strike said, rubbing his hands together. “Lunch.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>*****</p>
<p><br/>“I swear to God, I’ve never seen that case in my life.” </p>
<p>Cameron’s mouth was a thin line as he looked back at Strike and Robin. The three of them were alone in the dining car; Cameron had agreed to meet them for a private interview after dinner. He had sat down across from the two detectives with his usual cheerful way, commenting breezily on the cold temperatures, but as the last of the blue evening twilight faded into night, and Strike produced a photo of the flowered vanity case and showed it to the younger man, Cameron’s eyes grew round with worry. Robin thought she could read genuine shock in his expression, but Strike was unimpressed, she could tell. Her partner sat back, not breaking his eye contact with Cameron. </p>
<p>“It was quite purposefully hidden.”</p>
<p>Cameron leaned forward. </p>
<p>“Not by me.” He looked at Robin. “You have to believe me. That case is <em> not mine</em>.”</p>
<p>“You’re American, are you, Cameron?” mused Strike, switching tack, and Cameron moved his attention back to Strike.</p>
<p>“Canadian.” He smiled nervously. “It’s okay, most people make that mistake. I’ve been living in the States on a work visa for the past two years, though. In California.”</p>
<p>“And I know you’re well-travelled.”</p>
<p>Cameron nodded, wary. </p>
<p>“For business. I’m an app developer. I’ve been helping Waugh Industries get theirs off their ground.”</p>
<p>“So you’re doing well.”</p>
<p>“I - it’s been a long road, but yeah, I would say I am.”</p>
<p>Strike nodded, as if this satisfied some inner suspicion. </p>
<p>“So we can agree you’re well-off, well-travelled, lots of international connections.”</p>
<p>Cameron looked from him to Robin, then nodded again. </p>
<p>“Um. Yeah.”</p>
<p> “Seems like a great fit for a drug runner.”</p>
<p>Cameron had been running his hands through his hair, nervous, and stopped short in disbelief. </p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>He laughed, incredulous. </p>
<p>“Unbelievable. Look. I told you. I don’t know where that case came from, or what the hell it was doing in my cabin, but it’s not mine. I don’t even like the colour purple.”</p>
<p>Strike said nothing, his silence accusatory.</p>
<p>Cameron stood abruptly, shaking his head. </p>
<p>“I don’t have to sit here and be accused of <em> murder</em>. You’re not the fucking police.” </p>
<p>He took a deep breath, then flashed an apologetic look at Robin. </p>
<p>“Sorry.”</p>
<p>He closed his eyes, collecting himself, then opened them again, eyes on the floor. </p>
<p>“I met with you because I have nothing to hide.”</p>
<p>He raised his eyes again, clear and angry.</p>
<p>“I don’t know whose case that is, and you can believe me or not, but I’ve had enough of this shit.”</p>
<p>He glared at both of them, then left the dining car with an air of injured pride. </p>
<p>Robin blew out a breath, and Strike looked over at her. She sighed.</p>
<p>“That went well.”</p>
<p>“That went about as I expected. What else was he going to do? Confess, with details?”</p>
<p>Robin looked at him, surprised.</p>
<p>“You don’t believe him?”</p>
<p>“You do?”</p>
<p>“He seems genuinely surprised about that case in his cabin, and worried about the implications of it.”</p>
<p>“Of course he’s bloody worried. He’s a suspect.”</p>
<p>“You know what I mean. He was shaken up, and I think that was the reaction of an innocent man.”</p>
<p>Strike scoffed. </p>
<p>“Cameron is a strong young man who could easily overpower a girl like Chloe. He spends his life travelling for work. This train ride is another perfect opportunity for him to move drugs, except this time, Chloe discovers them, and now Cameron has a problem he needs to take care of.”</p>
<p>Robin shook her head. “That case could have been anyone’s. The fact that it was in Cameron’s cabin could be entirely coincidental.”</p>
<p>Strike raised his eyebrows. </p>
<p>“Or entirely damning.”</p>
<p>“I just don’t think it’s Cameron. He’s so disconnected from Waugh and Gary, and Chloe herself.”</p>
<p>Strike heaved himself to his feet, stretching his neck. “Means over motive.” He looked out the window, seeing only solid darkness. The outside lights showed nothing but a few feet beyond the tracks; nothing but ghostly mounds of glittering snow.</p>
<p>“Cameron. Stupid name, isn’t it.” He looked over his shoulder at Robin, grinning, and she gave him a fond roll of her eyes, just as a juddering, screeching noise shook the car. Strike lost his footing, stumbling backwards, and Robin fell sideways in her seat. There was an almighty lurch, then a jarring, shaking stop, and the lights went out. </p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Wrecking Crew</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Robin?” Strike’s voice was a sharp light in the liquid black, a clear point of focus. “Are you all right?”</p><p>She sat up gingerly. She hadn’t fallen off the seat, only bumped her elbow a bit hard against the table when she was knocked sideways.</p><p>“Yeah,” she said. “Are you?”</p><p>She had seen him stumble, and hoped that the final impact hadn’t caused him to fall, but he didn’t sound like he was in any pain.</p><p>“I wouldn’t say I’m great. But I’ll live.” The familiar wry tone made her smile.</p><p>It also made her ache to put her hands on him, to reassure herself that he was fine, that they were both okay.</p><p>She made herself stand on shaky legs.</p><p>“I’m coming to you.”</p><p>She took a step and bumped into the solid bulk of her partner, and his warm voice reached her in the dark.</p><p>“I’m already here.”</p><p>It was instinct; Robin stepped into his arms, and he wrapped them around her. She didn’t know what had just happened, beyond the knowledge that they had just been in some kind of crash, and the strange awareness of the lack of steady motion of the train speeding along its tracks.</p><p>She knew they should find the other passengers and check what happened, but she was still shaking, and right now, in the dark, eerie stillness, she just wanted to stay safe in Strike’s warm embrace.</p><p>She buried her face into Strike’s shirt for a moment, breathing in the familiar smell of him, and he rested his chin on her head. They stayed like that for a stolen moment of comfort, Robin listening to his rapid heartbeat against her ear. She wished she could stop the tremors running through her, then realised with a bit of a start that it was <em>him</em>. Tiny shakes were travelling along <em>Strike’s</em> large frame.</p><p><em>Of course</em>, she thought. The last time he had been in a vehicle that had crashed, he had lost his leg. And more than one fellow soldier.</p><p>“Cormoran,” she said, not moving her head.</p><p>“I’m here,” he said again, into her hair, and Robin’s heart gave a painful beat at the slight tremor in his voice.</p><p>“I am, too,” she whispered back, and her hands at his broad back gave a gentle squeeze. She felt him take a deep breath and nod against her head.</p><p>“Right,” was all he said, but she could hear the note of grateful warmth in it.</p><p>The lights flared back to life, and the car was once again lit with glowing yellow light. Robin looked up at Strike, blinking, and he smiled. He looked a bit pale, but otherwise himself. Voices could be heard travelling the length of the corridor, and the sound of cabin doors sliding open. Strike gently released her, and Robin stepped away.</p><p>“Here’s Waugh,” stated Strike, nodding at the door to the dining car door, which was siding open.</p><p>Waugh saw Strike and Robin, radio in hand. He looked rattled.</p><p>“I’ve been checking up and down, everyone’s all right.” His face was red, his eyes darting around. He reminded Robin of a rabbit, trapped and desperate.</p><p>“We’ve not crashed badly,” Waugh kept going. “We were radioed that there was ice and snow on the tracks; David was trying to brake and slow down, but he’s not experienced with this weather, and there was a massive amount of snow right up on top of the tracks. We’ve skidded right into a veritable snowbank.”</p><p>Robin remembered the strange, shuddering weightlessness before the train stopped.</p><p>“Can we reverse out?” she asked, feeling a bit silly. She knew next to nothing about trains, but just voicing the option out loud made her feel better.</p><p>Waugh shook his head. “We’re wedged in good and tight. Simon and David are out there inspecting if there’s any damage, but I think we’re stuck.”</p><p>Strike made his way to a window and looked out into the night.</p><p>“They’ll know what route we’re on?”</p><p>Waugh nodded rapidly.</p><p>“Yes. They’ll send someone along to dig us out.” He smiled nervously at Robin. “Could be awhile, though.”</p><p>His face worked, then suddenly Waugh buried his face in his hands for a moment, a sound escaping him that was a cross between a laugh and a sob.</p><p>“This train is cursed. I wish I’d never bloody started this whole thing.”</p><p>Robin stepped closer to Waugh.</p><p>“It’s not been - the best start, Rich. But we’ll get out of the snowbank, and we’ll find out what’s happened to Chloe. Things will get better. At least no one was harmed in the crash.”</p><p>He looked up, eyes red, and gave her a watery smile.</p><p>“Yes. Thank God.” He sighed. “I have to go check on Simon and David.” He sniffed, then left the dining car, shoulders slumped.</p><p>Robin and Strike were left alone again, and Robin had to fight the surprisingly demanding need to cross the distance of the cabin and snuggle in his arms again. He was looking at her with an unreadable expression; it was rare, these days, that she couldn’t tell what her partner was thinking.</p><p>“Do you remember,” she said lightly, “when we were discussing taking this case, and thought it would basically be a working holiday, while we got to the bottom of a bunch of mysterious letters?”</p><p>He chuckled, shrugging.</p><p>“I don’t think I’ve ever been more wrong.”</p><p>She grinned, then sighed, pressing her hands to forehead.</p><p>“Are you all right, Ellacott?” his voice was soft with concern, and she tried not to notice how that made her feel. She nodded.</p><p>“I’m just shaken. And tired.” She smiled. “I think I’m going to check in on Nick and Ilsa, then turn in.”</p><p>He gave her an approving nod, his expression back to something she couldn’t categorize.</p><p>“Good idea.”</p><p>Robin took a half-step towards him, and for a delicious moment, it seemed inevitable that she would end up back in his arms, and that in the middle of all this strangeness, they would be each other’s anchor.</p><p>But Strike tapped the cigarettes in his pocket, and took a step in the other direction.</p><p>“I think I need one of these.” He paused. “Goodnight, Robin.” They exchanged a last, friendly shared smile, and went their opposite ways.</p><p> </p><p>*****</p><p> </p><p>Strike lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. The snow continued to fall, creating a cocoon of deep stillness. It felt a bit as if the <em>Lady Amelia</em> were the last train on earth, and her passengers the last souls alive.</p><p>Beyond the thin wall beside him, he could hear Nick and Ilsa, and without the ever-present hum of the train rattling along, he could make out his friends’ conversation more clearly than ever. They were chatting in low voices about the murder and the crash. There was laughter, comforting murmurs. At one point, Ilsa’s voice came through as clearly as if she’d been in the same cabin.</p><p>“I’m glad you’re here,” she had said, and Nick had answered, with characteristic sincerity, “Me too, Ils. I’m glad you’re here with me.”</p><p>It reminded Strike of the moment with Robin in the dining car, just after the crash. He had disappeared, for a bit, there; he had gone into complete and total shock for a few seconds. Then, returning back to himself, he had found himself with only one thought, one need: <em>Robin</em>.</p><p>She hadn’t offered platitudes, or asked him questions. She hadn’t tried to distract him, or give him cheerful, practical advice.</p><p>She had just been there, quietly in his arms.</p><p>“I’m here,” she had whispered, and it had been the only thing necessary in the world for him, in that moment. For her to be there.</p><p>Strike sighed, and threw a long arm across his eyes. He wished she were here now, to offer that same comfort; a comfort he had told himself since he was a young boy that he didn’t need, that he could live without since it was seldom available anyway. Yet suddenly he found he craved it so strongly, it made his throat ache.</p><p>He shifted in bed, restless. The moments immediately after the crash, the comfort and closeness of Nick and Ilsa; this evening had brought with it an undeniable clarity: Strike wanted Robin, in every conceivable way there was to want someone. With her, he wanted it all.</p><p>If only there weren’t in the middle of investigating a murder, literally stuck in the middle of the Italian Alps.</p><p>Strike groaned, turning over in his sheets again, and swore quietly to himself. Outside, the snow continued to drift heavily down.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Communication Lines</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I think we should talk to Gary again,” Robin murmured to Strike over breakfast.</p>
<p>“Hm?” Strike blinked and pulled his focus back to her, took another swallow of coffee. He was on his third mug. He’d slept badly after lying awake for a long time staring into the darkness, aware that the old demons that had besieged him for so long after the explosion that had taken his leg were hovering once again on the edge of his consciousness, and bizarrely unable to sleep now without the familiar rattle of the train. The eerie quiet outside, that particular silence that goes with a world blanketed by snow, seemed to hold a feeling of menace. He’d been half comforted by the proximity of the Herberts on one side of him and Robin on the other, and half anxious that he might succumb to one of the nightmares he hadn’t had in so many years, that he might wake everyone shouting and cause a disturbance that no one else needed and would only serve as an embarrassment, although Nick and Ilsa had seen him through rough patches in the early days and he knew Robin would understand.</p>
<p>He had slept eventually, and hadn’t had any specific nightmares that he could remember, but his sleep had been uneasy and he’d woken feeling not in the least refreshed. At least he knew, from the normal way he was treated at breakfast, that he hadn’t woken anyone else.</p>
<p>“I want to interview Gary again,” Robin repeated, suppressing the worry that had nagged at her since the moment she’d laid eyes on her big partner this morning. He looked washed out, pale with bags under his eyes, and he seemed jumpy. She remembered how she had felt in the days and weeks after the Shacklewell Ripper had sent her a severed leg, and her heart ached for him, but she wasn’t going to ask him about it in a crowded dining car.</p>
<p>“You said you felt he was holding back,” she went on. “I wonder if Chloe told him about the drugs—” she had lowered her voice so that she was almost whispering “—or I suppose it’s even possible they were his.”</p>
<p>Strike scowled. “Only if they’re not Cameron’s.”</p>
<p>Robin chose to let this slide. “Just keeping an open mind,” she said. “But anyway, I’d like a chance to talk to him. I can put it to him that we know what he and Waugh were arguing about without giving away that his suspicions were correct, and see what he does. It’s still possible this was a crime of passion, and if so then he’s our most likely suspect.”</p>
<p>Strike thought for a moment, then nodded. “You’re right,” he said. “I’m still thinking it’s likely to be Cameron, but it helps us prove that if we can eliminate everyone else.”</p>
<p>Robin nodded. “I’ll catch him after breakfast, when he’s clearing up,” she said. “Jenny will go off and start the morning cleaning, so he’ll be alone.”</p>
<p>Strike nodded again. “I might see if I can catch the Joneses, they often have a pot of tea in the lounge mid morning,” he said. “See if we can’t rule Mrs Jones out too.”</p>
<p>Robin hesitated, then slid her hand across the table and into his. She didn’t say anything, merely squeezed his fingers gently, but his hand closed around hers, gripping her hard for the briefest of moments before letting go again. Robin’s throat tightened as she gently drew her hand away. She wished that...what? That she was closer to him, that she could offer support without fear of seeming patronising.</p>
<p>Just as she opened her mouth to try to say something, Nick and Ilsa appeared with coffees and joined them at their table. Smiling, Robin scooted over to make room, and the conversation swiftly turned, as with almost everyone else on board the train, to speculation about how long it might take for a rescue crew to arrive to dig them out of the snow and set them on their way again.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>*****</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Do you mind if we sit?” Robin asked. “I’m quite tired, didn’t sleep all that well.” It was half a truth. She’d not slept well, worrying about the case and about Strike, and jumping at every tiny creak from the train as someone moved around. The silence was eerie. But the real reason for her request was Strike’s suspicion that Gary had used being busy in the kitchen as an excuse to dissemble.</p>
<p>Gary hesitated, looking around at the clean kitchen, and nodded reluctantly. “I suppose lunch prep can wait a bit,” he said a little ungraciously.</p>
<p>Robin smiled. “Thank you.”</p>
<p>“Coffee?” Gary asked, and Robin assented gratefully.</p>
<p>Sat down at the nearest table, two coffees between them, Gary was clearly waiting for her to start.</p>
<p>“Okay,” Robin said. “No point beating about the bush. I spoke to Waugh and, after a push, he told me what you two were arguing about.”</p>
<p>Gary stiffened. “What did he say?”</p>
<p>“Well, at first he said it was an argument about the route,” Robin said. “But then he admitted you were arguing about Chloe.”</p>
<p>Gary looked out of the window, his jaw tight. “Did he now.”</p>
<p>“Want to give me your side of it?”</p>
<p>Gary snorted. “I suppose he said I was the jealous boyfriend, imagining things?”</p>
<p>Robin nodded. “Pretty much.”</p>
<p>Gary sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “If only,” he said. “They were having an affair. I’d known for ages.”</p>
<p>Robin sat back and regarded him levelly. “Since before the trip?”</p>
<p>Gary snorted. “Way before.”</p>
<p>“So why are you here? Why did you agree to it?”</p>
<p>Gary sighed again. “It’s...complicated,” he said finally. “I loved her. I know Rich loves his wife. I thought - hoped - it would fizzle out. I know it sounds odd given the circumstances, but I don’t dislike the guy. We work well together.”</p>
<p>Robin pretended to read through her notes to hide her surprise, thinking carefully. This was hardly the furious rantings of a lover crossed and seeking revenge. “Did you ask either of them about it?”</p>
<p>Gary nodded. “Well, not ask, as such. I told them I knew. Separately.”</p>
<p>“And?”</p>
<p>“Rich denied it, of course. In many ways he had more to lose. He’d have been utterly screwed if I just got off at Paris or Geneva or wherever and flew home, wouldn’t he?”</p>
<p>Robin smiled. “I suppose so.”</p>
<p>“And Chloe at least had stopped denying it, just said she didn’t want to talk about it any more. I was hoping she’d admit it, and we could talk about it, get past it. I—” Gary hesitated, looked away, fiddled with his coffee mug. Robin waited.</p>
<p>“I’m not good at talking about...feelings,” he said at last, his voice low. “We didn’t, much, when I was a kid. My dad was one of those emotionally absent fathers. He was there, providing for us, but he never told me he loved me or was proud of me or anything.”</p>
<p>He paused and took a sip of his coffee, and Robin wondered how Strike was getting on with the Joneses.</p>
<p>“So, yeah, it was just assumed that you knew,” Gary went on. “And I realised I’d done the same, just assumed Chloe knew how I felt about her, and she didn’t.” His voice shook a little. “I’ll always regret not telling her.”</p>
<p>Robin tapped at her notebook with her pen, giving him a moment to regain his composure.</p>
<p>“So what were you arguing about that first night? You and Chloe?”</p>
<p>“This,” Gary said simply. “I wanted her to tell me, be honest, and tell me why. I thought, if she expressed regret and I told her I loved her, we might work things out. But there was just no time, it’s always wall to wall busy on a trip like this.”</p>
<p>“And you and Waugh?”</p>
<p>Gary scowled. “I just wanted him to man up, show me some respect by admitting it. And, yeah, maybe I might have felt better if I’d thumped him one.” Seeing Robin’s wry look, he added hastily, “That doesn’t mean I think violence is the answer, or that I would ever have hurt Chloe.”</p>
<p>Robin paused a moment. “And you still don’t know what Chloe was upset about the night she died?”</p>
<p>Gary shook his head. “Your...colleague told me she said she’d seen something. She didn’t say anything to me about that. Why did she go to Rich?”</p>
<p>“She thought she found something in a cabin when she was doing the beds,” Robin said carefully. “She didn’t mention it to you?”</p>
<p>“I was rushed off my feet in the kitchen that night doing the themed menu,” Gary replied. “Rich wanted it to be really special, a centrepiece for the trip.”</p>
<p>Robin nodded. “And you didn’t see her after that?”</p>
<p>“No, Rich said he’d given her the night off, sent her to bed, that she wasn’t well. I was going to check on her when I turned in, but Jenny got there first.”</p>
<p>“And you were in the dining car most of the evening?”</p>
<p>“All evening, apart from when I saw Rich, and I popped to smoke a couple of times.”</p>
<p>“Anyone see you?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, I usually go and find Simon.”</p>
<p>The opposite way to Chloe and Jenny’s room, thought Robin. She was becoming more and more convinced that Gary couldn’t have been involved in Chloe’s death.</p>
<p>She sighed and put her pen down. “Is there anything else? Anything else that might be relevant to Chloe, or to the evening?”</p>
<p>Gary hesitated. “She sent me a weird text. I got it just before the signal cut out.” He pressed his mouth into a thin line. “I think - it must have been just before she was -” He cut himself off, shaking his head, and pulled his mobile from his pocket, turning it over in his hands.</p>
<p>“Strange how we all carry them around, isn’t it? Even though there’s no longer any signal. But this last message from her - it’s like having a piece of her with me.” </p>
<p>He looked at Robin. </p>
<p>“At the time, it didn’t make sense. I still don’t know what she was talking about. But maybe it means something to you.”</p>
<p>Gary pushed his mobile across the table to Robin, who took it in her hands and read the last message on the screen, from Chloe:</p>
<p>
  <b> <em>I love yuo and we canwork out. Need tell Rich about Charlie. Hugo says Charlie and I heard on the phone. Talk tomorrow I love you and</em></b>
</p>
<p>Robin read the unfinished text three times, her heart sinking with sympathy for the poor girl. She looked up at Gary. </p>
<p>“May I copy this down?”</p>
<p>He nodded.</p>
<p>Robin copied the message into her notebook, then gave Gary back the phone. A muscle was jumping in his jaw; she could tell he was fighting back emotion. </p>
<p>“She loved you,” Robin said softly, and he nodded again, then looked out the window. </p>
<p>“Yeah. For all the good it did.” He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, then looked back at her. </p>
<p>“I don’t know who killed Chloe. But I hope you and your partner can find out.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>*****</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Robin was walking back to her cabin when she saw Strike emerge from his. He looked up, smiling, and she returned it. They walked towards each other. </p>
<p>“How did your interview with the Joneses go?”</p>
<p>He shook his head.</p>
<p>“Rote. I don’t believe they were serious suspects, and I’ve confirmed it, now. Mrs. Jones wasn’t gone long enough to have done it. Her room was the wrong way, and she only went to her cabin to change her shoes. She stopped to chat with Mary, who we can confirm that when we speak to her. Mr Jones was in the dining car the entire evening, so that rules him out.” </p>
<p>He gave a shrug. </p>
<p>“Apart from answering my questions, that was about it.”</p>
<p>“They didn’t have much to say, then?”</p>
<p>Strike looked at her playfully. </p>
<p>“Do they ever?”</p>
<p>This made Robin chuckle, and he grinned, looking at her fondly. He was trying to make her laugh, she realised. Trying to cheer her up. Not for the first time, she was aware that he was the best source of comfort in her life these days.</p>
<p>They remained smiling at each other, then Strike gestured to the notebook in her hand. </p>
<p>“Did Gary have anything interesting to say?”</p>
<p>Robin flipped to the page where she had coped down Chloe’s text. “I think you’d better take a look at this.”</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Stoking the Engine</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Just thought I'd throw this out there for this particular chapter: between one thing and another, this is our favourite chapter. 😁</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“If it’s not Gary or Waugh, I think we go back to Cameron,” said Strike. He and Robin were sitting in the lounge after lunch, a pot of tea between them on the table. It had mercifully stopped snowing, and Waugh was hopeful that the rescue train with its snow plough and digging equipment would arrive to get them out of the snow drift soon. He was in constant radio contact, and clearly wanted to get this ill-fated trip over and done with. The detectives could hardly blame him.</p><p>“I know Cameron seems like the best bet, but I’m just not convinced,” Robin argued. “Circumstantial evidence isn’t proof.”</p><p>Strike carefully refrained from making a comment about Robin being partial to the young Canadian. He was tired: between the lack of sleep, the interviews, and the inescapable, static white scenery seen out of every window, the day had been one of the longest in recent memory. And it was barely half over.</p><p>He sighed heavily.</p><p>“Right. But he makes the most logical sense. If you hear hoofbeats, etc.”</p><p>Robin opened her mouth again, and Strike held up a weary hand.</p><p>“Either way, we should still interview the others. And I’ll admit, Chloe’s text throws a new light on things.” Robin closed her mouth, then nodded.</p><p>“I’ll interview Gwendoline and Felicity in the lounge, if you want to tackle Mary.”</p><p>Strike rubbed a hand down his jaw, shaking his head ruefully, and Robin laughed.</p><p>“Or we can switch, if you like.”</p><p>He considered: patronising writer or the parrot and his entourage?</p><p>“I’ll take Mary,” he grumbled, and Robin grinned.</p><p>“I’ll catch up with you in a bit.”</p><p> </p><p>*****</p><p> </p><p>“Yes,” Strike said patiently, though he felt anything but. “Although the thing is, Mary, it doesn’t really matter what elaborate stories we can come up with to explain <em>why</em> someone might want to harm Chloe. If they couldn’t have done it, then they can’t be a suspect.”</p><p>“But it makes sense, you see,” Mary said, leaning forward, and Strike could see that she was about to launch into her long, rambling spiel about Nick being the real as well as the fake murderer all over again. He’d heard the story twice already, with different embellishments. Mary was proving difficult to sidetrack.</p><p>“Dr Sullivan—”</p><p>“—Herbert,” Strike corrected her again grimly. <em>Christ, woman, at least be clear in your head about whether you’re accusing someone real or fictitious.</em></p><p>“—would have known exactly how much drug to give her to kill her without it looking suspicious,” Mary went on, ignoring him.</p><p>“What makes you think it was drugs?” Strike couldn’t help asking, cursing himself as Mary’s eyes lit up.</p><p>“Obvious choice for a doctor. It’s a double bluff, don’t you see? It’s always something obvious like that. Everyone would assume a doctor would choose a different weapon. Probably belladonna, or maybe arsenic—”</p><p>Strike was seriously beginning to wish he’d taken the parrot and his entourage. He wondered how Robin was getting on.</p><p>He let Mary ramble on for a minute more before interrupting, wishing he could smoke.</p><p>“But the thing IS, Mary,” he finally broke in, his patience snapping at last. “Dr Herbert says you spent most of the evening trying to convince him that his character had committed the murder in the game.”</p><p>“Well, yes, because you see, he—”</p><p>“—so you’re his alibi,” Strike said loudly, willing her to shut up for ten seconds so he could finish a thought. “For a good half an hour either side of the estimated time of the murder, you were haranguing him and Mrs Herbert about it. They remember you <em>very</em> clearly.”</p><p>“I didn’t <em>harangue</em>—”</p><p>“—and SO, Mary, if here was a chance in all of this that Dr Herbert could have done it, then so could you. You’re each other’s alibis.”</p><p>That did the trick. Stunned into silence, Mary sat, her jaw working, her brain obviously whirring, seeking the holes in Strike’s logic that could allow her theory to still hold true.</p><p>“Why would I murder someone?” she asked at last.</p><p>“I couldn’t give a monkey’s,” Strike replied waspishly. He needed a cigarette. “I don’t care why the killer did it. I just need to prove that they did. And neither you nor Dr Herbert nor his wife could have done, if their version of the events of the evening is true.”</p><p>He flicked a page in his notebook. “You were all there throughout the meal. Mrs Herbert went to the toilet after the game was finished, at which point you approached Dr Herbert with your theory. You talked to them until they bid you goodnight, by which time Chloe had been dead at least an hour. Is this all true?”</p><p>Mary looked sulky. “Yes.”</p><p>“So you couldn’t have done it, and nor could Dr Herbert.”</p><p>Mary paused, thinking. Her eyes lit up again. “You’re right, yes. But Mrs Herbert— Ah yes, jealous of her husband flirting with a younger—”</p><p>“Thank you, Mary,” Strike said firmly, closing his notebook with a snap. “We’re done here.”</p><p>Mary sat back, lost in thought, clearly not accepting defeat. She was so absorbed in her new theory, she didn’t even remember to tut when Strike took his cigarettes from his pocket. He took the opportunity to make good his escape.</p><p> </p><p>*****</p><p> </p><p>It was around 7 pm by the time Robin made her way down the hall to Strike’s cabin. The interview in the lounge with Gwendoline, Felicity and Sir Hugo had been, at best, an entertaining story to relate to Strike, and at worst, a complete waste of time.</p><p>Gwendoline and Felicity had been present and witnessed by everyone at the murder mystery evening, and after retiring to the lounge car after dinner, their presence was confirmed separately by Simon, Gary and Jenny.</p><p>Gwendoline had declared that Chloe’s text mentioning “Charlie” and Sir Hugo’s squawking of the same name was nothing more than coincidence. Robin couldn’t really disagree, but it didn’t stop her from gritting her teeth and continuing her round of questioning, Sir Hugo screeching nearly the whole way through.</p><p>At one point, Sir Hugo’s noises had become so continuous and grating that Robin could have sworn he was shouting “Waugh,” and, patience worn thin by Gwendoline’s imperious declarations and Felicity’s fussing, Robin flipped her notebook shut and finished the interview.</p><p>Robin knocked on Strike’s cabin door, and after a few moments, he opened it.</p><p>“Are you coming for dinner...” Robin trailed off, dry-mouthed.</p><p>She had clearly caught Strike in the middle of changing for the evening meal - somehow the air of formality in the dining car in the evenings had lingered despite the circumstances. He was wearing his suit trousers, his jacket hung on a peg on the wall behind him. A waft of fresh cologne reached her, musk and lavender.</p><p>“Sorry, yeah, just got a cufflink stuck,” he muttered, fiddling at his wrist with the opposite hand, focused on his task.</p><p>Robin stared. Strike’s shirt was entirely unbuttoned, hanging loose, and the contrast of swarthy skin and his dense mat of body hair could not have been more stark against the crisp white cotton of his shirt.</p><p>He glanced up at her, and Robin realised she wasn’t saying anything. She swallowed.</p><p>“How did you get on with the parrot circus?”</p><p>Robin tried to pull her mind back to the prosaic. “Not much to tell,” she managed. “Think I’ll need to talk to them again, it was a bit unclear exactly what happened after they went to put the parrot to bed, but talking about that reminded them that he needed a nap—”</p><p>The look on Strike’s face made mirth bubble up inside her, almost overtaking the heat coiling in the pit of her stomach.</p><p>“Do birds nap?” he asked, one eyebrow raised, and then turned his focus back to his wrist. “Bloody thing— Ah, got it.”</p><p>“Want me to do the other one?” Robin couldn’t resist asking.</p><p>His eyes met hers, dark and unfathomable. “Thank you,” he murmured huskily, holding it out to her and extending his other wrist.</p><p>Robin took a half step forward and reached for him, her fingers brushing his wrist as she bought the two sides of his cuff together. Her smaller fingers made swift work of threading the little metal bar through the holes. She turned his arm to look at the design, a simple square divided diagonally into silver and black.</p><p>“Thirtieth birthday from Joan and Ted,” he told her, and she smiled.</p><p>“Thank you, Robin,” Strike added, his voice low, and Robin realised she was still standing holding his wrist, his broad chest so close to her, his skin warm under her hand. She could smell him, musk and cologne, warmth and lavender. She could feel his pulse, racing as fast as hers, as she raised her gaze to his.</p><p>“You’re welcome,” she murmured back, drowning in the heat of his gaze, the scent of him so close, the dark hair that she so longed to touch, to see if it was as soft as it looked—</p><p>There was no hesitation this time. Strike leaned down and kissed her, his mouth claiming hers, and the flames took off so fiercely that Robin would have gasped had she been able; instead she swayed towards him, a small whimper escaping her throat as his tongue swept into her mouth and his hands found her waist, pulling her against him.</p><p>She was vaguely aware of a seemingly cautious conversation in a dining car, two days ago, vaguely aware of their agreement to wait, but then one of his hands loosened its hold on her waist to push the door shut behind them, and then she was only aware of one thing: Strike.</p><p>They kissed harder, longer, deeper. His hands travelled low, a heavy caress against the curve of her arse, and she let her own hands stroke against the dense, soft hair of his chest, fingers tangling through it, then skating up along the skin of his broad shoulders, scratching against the prickle of heavy stubble on his jaw, before brushing back down, delighting in the solid scope of his torso.</p><p>She couldn’t get over the thrill of how undeniably masculine he felt; all that chest hair and rough stubble and weighted, latent strength. He walked them both back a few steps, and Robin felt her back against the door, and his tongue in her mouth was stroking so deeply that she felt drunk with it. She’d never been kissed like this, she realised dimly, as his large hands gripped her hips and she ground herself against his hardness, all instinct. The contact sparked an electric trail of arousal right through her, down to her toes, and they began to move together, their bodies lined up, Robin feeling every strong stroke of himself against her, right in the place she needed it, and she threw her head back against the door and gasped, her fingers clenched in his shirt.</p><p>Robin felt guided by such strong desire that she didn’t stop to think too hard as her hands went to his belt, and began to undo it.</p><p>He groaned, deep and desperate into her mouth, and Robin felt the heat in her stomach travel deliciously down and settle hotly between her legs. Strike reached a large hand between them and cupped that heat, and she moaned gratefully.</p><p>“Fuck,” he breathed, breaking the kiss and raining a prickly trail of kisses down her throat.</p><p>“Strike,” she whispered, incapable of a coherent answer. She moved her hips in his grip, rubbing against him, needing him, and he cursed softly before his mouth found hers again, inevitable and decisive.</p><p>Need was an unfulfilled promise between them, and Robin wanted only to lose herself in it. She worked Strike’s belt undone, and he groaned again before he broke the kiss. Robin let out a soft sigh as his hands settled on hers, gently stilling them. He rested his forehead against hers, and they both stood, breathing hard.</p><p>“Robin,” said Strike, and this time, she looked up at him. His eyes searched hers. He brought one of her hands up and placed it on his chest, against the warm skin and springy hair. She could feel his heartbeat, drumming fast. He let out a small huff.</p><p>“The thing is, Ellacott,” he stated, his voice gravel. “If I don’t stop now, then I don’t think I’m stopping at all.”</p><p>His pupils were blown wide, his eyes entirely dark.</p><p>“I’ve never wanted you more,” he said, gruff and simple. “But I just want to check in with you, here, before we keep going.”</p><p>His hand closed around hers, and Robin bit her lip. She wanted him. She could feel how much he wanted her. But despite the heat of his words, she could sense reason creeping back in. Did they really want to do this, here, tonight? Cross that final line in such a frenzied, hurried way, with an unsolved murder weighing so heavily on every part of this trip?</p><p>A part of her, the part that didn’t want Strike to ever let go of her hand, didn’t care about any of that.</p><p>But the other part, the part that knew he was right, the part that knew she didn’t want any chance of a relationship to begin like this, had already won. She dropped her forehead to his chest, sighing.</p><p>He kissed the top of her head and gave a rueful chuckle. Then he looked at her, his face open and serious.</p><p>“I want to give this shot with you everything I have. And right now, with Waugh and Chloe…”</p><p>Robin sighed. Her heart was somewhere in her throat, and she felt light-headed.</p><p>“I agree. And we haven’t gotten anywhere near what’s happening with the strange letters.”</p><p>Strike shook his head, pushing a hand through his hair and smiling.</p><p>“Don’t even start with those bloody letters.”</p><p>He stepped back from her, and Robin smoothed her own hair with a shaky hand.</p><p>“Well, dinner, I guess?”</p><p>He grinned.</p><p>“I might need a moment.”</p><p>Robin blushed, then turned around, her hand on the door. She turned and gave him a smile over her shoulder.</p><p>“See you there.”</p><p>His eyes were so full of affection it made her blush again.</p><p>“Yeah. See you there.”</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Riding the Rails</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Robin ducked her head to her mug of tea, blushing, when Strike arrived at breakfast the next morning, rumpled and gorgeous and smelling of his morning cigarette. He said nothing to her, merely casting her a soft smile for her eyes only as he settled himself into the seat next to Nick and across from Robin.</p>
<p>Aware that Ilsa’s sharp eyes missed nothing, Robin strove to keep her colour under control, thankful that none of the other people at the table, and in particular Strike himself, could see her thoughts as snatches from the really rather erotic dream she’d had about him last night flashed through her mind’s eye. Hardly surprising, after the way they’d left things last might, that her subconscious had betrayed her so thoroughly.</p>
<p>“Morning.” His gravelly voice skittered down her spine even more than usual today, reminding her of his stubble against her skin, his chest hair under her fingers, his deep voice in her ear—</p>
<p>Robin cleared her throat. “Morning,” she managed, hoping her voice didn’t sound as shaky as it felt.</p>
<p>“What’s the plan for today?” Nick asked.</p>
<p>Strike shrugged. “Not much, for me,” he replied. “Robin, you’re going to finish with Gwendoline and Felicity and that bird?”</p>
<p>Robin nodded.</p>
<p>“And then I guess we compare notes, work out who’s left who actually could have done it, and put together a reasonable scenario to hand over to the police,” Strike said. He sighed and ran a frustrated hand through his already messy hair. “I was hoping we’d solve it ourselves, but—”</p>
<p>Ilsa grinned. “Maybe you will. Maybe the parrot did it,” she said, grinning. “You’d have to lock him up then.”</p>
<p>Strike gave a snort of laughter. “Few things would give me more pleasure,” he replied, and shot a sneaky glance at Robin that sent heat darting straight to her groin. Blushing again, she took another swig of her tea.</p>
<p>Waugh appeared. “Usual?” he asked Strike, who grinned.</p>
<p>“Please,” he replied, glancing sideways at Nick. “Don’t,” he added. “I’m on holiday, of sorts, so a full English every day doesn’t count. It’s back to brown toast once I’m back in the office.”</p>
<p>“I didn’t say a word,” Nick replied mildly.</p>
<p>Fussing and general palaver further down the car signalled the departure of Gwendoline, Felicity and Sir Hugo. Robin set her tea down.</p>
<p>“That’s my cue,” she said. “I’ll go and fetch my notes and see if I can catch them in their cabin this time. Wish me luck.”</p>
<p>The Herberts and Strike bid her goodbye as she left, glad for once to be out of Strike’s orbit and have something to focus on to take her mind off his big hands on the table and the twinkle in his eye that almost seemed to suggest he knew she’d been having naughty dreams about him.</p>
<p>Maybe he had, too. Cursing her wayward thoughts, Robin forced her attention to the interview in front of her.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>*****</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Squawk! Charlie!”</p>
<p>Robin gritted her teeth, ignored the parrot and flicked over a page in her notebook. She was squeezed onto the end of a bench-style sofa by the door. Gwendoline sat opposite her, and the room was dominated by Sir Hugo’s cage. </p>
<p>“So,” she began, addressing Gwendoline and wishing Felicity would stop fussing with the parrot and sit down. Her attentions to the bird only seemed to be making him noisier, in Robin’s opinion, and Gwendoline kept getting distracted.</p>
<p>“Last time we spoke, we got as far as you leaving the dining car.”</p>
<p>“Yes,” Gwendoline replied. “Felicity, change his water, would you? That lemon slice is looking rather tired.”</p>
<p>Felicity nodded and began to open the cage. Sir Hugo squawked again and ruffled his feathers.</p>
<p>Determinedly ignoring the side circus, Robin focused on Gwendoline. “So what happened after you got back here?”</p>
<p>“We put Hugo to bed,” Gwendoline replied. “Felicity, don’t leave the door open! He’ll think it’s time for a fly and we’ll never get him back in.”</p>
<p>Robin herself was distracted for a moment, wondering if it was possible for a parrot the size of Sir Hugo to fly within a tiny cabin, even a twin like this one was.</p>
<p>She pulled her attention back to her notes. “And were the two of you then together for the rest of the evening?”</p>
<p>“Charlie!” Sir Hugo shouted.</p>
<p>“Yes,” Gwendoline replied. “Almost entirely.”</p>
<p>“Almost?”</p>
<p>“I went back to ask for another lemon from the kitchen for Sir Hugo’s water. The one we had was getting stale. Felicity stayed here to keep him calm.”</p>
<p>“Did anyone see you?” Out of the corner of her eye, Robin saw Felicity reach for a foil-wrapped object and a knife sat on a shelf above a cupboard unit. She unwrapped a half lemon and began to cut another slice from the fruit, resting on the foil spread out on the shelf near the bird’s cage.</p>
<p>Gwendoline flapped at Felicity. “You have to slice it thinner that that, dear. You know sometimes he eats them. We don’t want him to choke, do we?”</p>
<p>Robin was glad Strike wasn’t present. Forcing down mirth and an image of his sardonic raised eyebrow, she ploughed on.</p>
<p>“Did anyone see you?”</p>
<p>“Yes, I spoke to that chef chap, found him in the lounge. He brought one through to me.”</p>
<p>Robin made a note to check with Gary. She and Strike and the Herberts had been in the dining car still at that point.</p>
<p>“And how long were you gone?”</p>
<p>“Well,” Gwendoline looked huffy for a moment. “A while. I think he forgot.”</p>
<p>“Forgot?” </p>
<p>“He was ages, and then I saw him come back to the lounge car, and immediately rush back. Then he brought the lemon, and apologised. Said he’d been serving more coffees, but I think he forgot.”</p>
<p>“There was a lot going on,” Robin mused. “How long would you say you were gone?”</p>
<p>Gwendoline shrugged, watching Felicity assemble Sir Hugo’s water bowl and the lemon slice and slide the whole thing back into his cage. “Maybe ten minutes? I wasn’t left alone for long, I’d have made a fuss.”</p>
<p><em>I bet</em>, Robin thought, glad again that Strike wasn’t here. She watched Felicity close the cage, and open a cupboard set into the wall. She re-wrapped the lemon and tucked it and the knife into the cupboard next to a small vanity case and matching sponge bag.</p>
<p>“And after you got back, you both went to bed?”</p>
<p>“Well, we read for a while,” Gwendoline said imperiously, as Felicity bustled about fiddling with the blinds at the window. “But yes, after Felicity got back too, we went to bed to read.”</p>
<p>“After Felicity got back?”</p>
<p>But Robin was ignored in favour of cooing over the bird and settling him for his morning nap. The ladies both bid him a loving good night, and the blinds were pulled low to block out most of the light. With a last squawk of “Charlie!”, the bird fell silent.</p>
<p>Felicity sat down next to Gwendoline, finally giving Robin her attention.</p>
<p>“Where had you gone, Felicity?” Robin pressed.</p>
<p>“Oh, nowhere,” Felicity replied. “I wanted to make a call, to a friend of mine to warn her we’d be losing signal soon, but I couldn’t get through. I just stepped into the corridor, and then the next car, to see if I could find any signal.”</p>
<p>“And could you?”</p>
<p>“No,” Felicity replied. “Will that be all, Miss Ellacott?”</p>
<p>Robin closed her notebook and gave the ladies a warm smile. “Yes, thank you,” she replied. “You’ve been most helpful.”</p>
<p>Gwendoline nodded, satisfied, and Felicity sat quietly, as she always did when not obeying her companion’s orders or fussing over the parrot.</p>
<p>“Will you catch who did it?” Felicity asked suddenly.</p>
<p>Robin gave her a reassuring smile. “If we don’t, the police will, I’m sure,” she replied. “Hopefully we’ll be on our way soon.”</p>
<p>“Indeed,” Gwendoline replied. “The chef said he can’t spare us another lemon, so we really do need to get back to civilisation soon.”</p>
<p>Robin’s smile remained pinned to her face. “I’m sure we will,” she said, standing. “Thank you both very much for your time.”</p>
<p>“Not at all,” the ladies murmured as Robin let herself out of the cabin.</p>
<p>Heart hammering, Robin hastened back towards the dining car where she had left Strike with the Herberts. Nick and Ilsa were still sat, lingering over their late breakfast, but Strike was nowhere to be seen.</p>
<p>“Went for a smoke,” Nick replied to Robin’s slightly breathless enquiry. “Everything all right?” he called after her, but Robin was already hurrying away, out of the dining car and on down the train.</p>
<p>She met Strike coming the other way, halfway through the next carriage, and paused at the end door, waiting for him to reach her. She pulled him through into the space between the carriages, closing the door behind them.</p>
<p>“What?” Strike asked, half hoping that this was a moment to steal a swift kiss, but quickly registering from the look on Robin’s face that it wasn’t.</p>
<p>“I’ve got it,” she murmured, animated, her cheeks flushed, her hands fluttering. “I know who killed Chloe.”</p>
<p>Strike stared at her for a long moment, his thoughts a turmoil - intrigued, impressed, bowled over by her beauty - and then he jerked back into action. He slid the window next to them down, took out his cigarettes and lit one.</p>
<p>“Tell me everything.”</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. End of the Line</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Robin and Strike made their way along the silent corridor, anticipation heavy in the air. Robin, unable to sort through the various emotions that battled for her attention, among them excitement, satisfaction, and euphoria, had landed on nervousness.</p><p>What if she had been wrong? What if her guess was a convoluted theory that backfired, and then put her and Strike’s reputation at risk?</p><p>No. No, she knew she was right.</p><p>As if sensing her heightened, slightly chaotic feelings, Strike brushed his large, callused hand against the back of her hand, then threaded his fingers through hers. She looked over at him to see him smiling at her. A feeling of warmth and comfort washed through her; it should have felt a bit absurd, holding hands as they walked quietly down the hall, about to blow the lid off a murder investigation, but instead, it felt entirely right.</p><p>Robin raised her hand to knock on the cabin door they had stopped in front of. It cracked open to reveal a pair of guileless, watery blue eyes.</p><p>“Oh, Miss Ellacott!” Felicity was taken aback to see them. She did not, however, widen the door. “Did you forget something?”</p><p>“Who is it, Felicity?”</p><p>Gwendoline’s affronted voice could be heard beyond the door. “Tell them to come back later, as Sir Hugo’s finally settled in for his nap!”</p><p>“Yes, I’m afraid this really isn’t a good time-” began Felicity nervously, who had now spied Strike’s tall form standing beside Robin.</p><p>Robin felt Strike squeeze her hand, and she drew a burst of inner strength from the warm fingers still entwined with hers, then said firmly,</p><p>“Actually, Felicity, this can’t wait.”</p><p>Felicity said nothing, but something in Robin’s decisive tone must have overrode Gwendoline’s fussing noises, and had Felicity opening the door.</p><p>“Did I not just say…” began Gwendoline, who was standing in the cabin next to Sir Hugo’s cage, but at the solemn looks on Strike and Robin’s faces, closed her mouth.</p><p>Sir Hugo, uncharacteristically, said nothing, but ruffled his feathers. Gwendoline looked at him, sighing.</p><p>“He looks peaky. Felicity, go fetch him some ice cubes from the dining car to put in his water. I think it’s much too lukewarm.”</p><p>For once, Felicity didn’t jump to obey. Her eyes were still on Robin, and Strike, who had remained just in the door.</p><p>“Gwendoline,” said Robin quietly. “I have a few further questions for Felicity.”</p><p>“Sir Hugo is-”</p><p>“Gwendoline.” Strike’s deep voice cut through the small space. “I can escort you to get some ice.”</p><p>Gwendoline’s sharp eyes fell on Strike with surprise, then delight. “Well, that’s fine then!” she declared, and with an almost girlish giggle, swept forward. Strike stood aside to let her through, and with a last, unreadable look towards Robin, followed the older woman to the dining car.</p><p>Robin and Felicity sat facing one another on the twin seats, the parrot cage looming large between them. Felicity folded her hands together and clasped her knee.</p><p>“Well?” she asked shortly. “You have more questions, do you?”</p><p>“Yes.” Robin flipped open her notepad and pretended to stare at the notes written there, but she already had them memorised. The cabin was a silent echo chamber for the pounding of her heart. She looked up at the open cupboard in the wall, then back at Felicity.</p><p>“You said earlier that you left the cabin to make a call.”</p><p>“Yes, and there wasn’t a signal,” finished Felicity. “I thought we’d been over this.” She twisted her fingers together.</p><p>“The thing is, though,” continued Robin lightly, “that if you had left the cabin, and Gwendoline can’t account for the time you were gone, then that leaves you without an alibi.”</p><p>Felicity stared at her.</p><p>“I was gone for a measly few moments. I hardly think that counts.”</p><p>Sir Hugo chose this moment to loudly ruffle his feathers again, and both women turned to him.</p><p>“Extraordinary bird,” commented Robin.</p><p>“Yes,” agreed Felicity, her tone offhand.</p><p>“And how funny that he always says that name,” observed Robin casually. “Charlie.”</p><p>Robin watched the effect the name had on Felicity’s face; the woman didn’t quite manage to cover up the panic in time, before her expression took on innocence.</p><p>Robin kept going.</p><p>“Charlie’s quite a common name, I suppose.”</p><p>“I suppose,” said Felicity, her tone wary now.</p><p>“Everyone seems to be throwing it around. Even Chloe mentioned it, in a text, right before she died.”</p><p>There was no hiding it this time: Felicity’s face paled. And Robin knew, in that moment, that she had been right.</p><p>“One more thing, Felicity,” said Robin, and Felicity nodded, recovering somewhat, although her hands were twisting more than ever.</p><p>Robin stood and walked over to the open cupboard in the wall, pulling out the small vanity case and sponge bag she had glimpsed earlier. The fabric of the bags was patterned in lavender; an identical match to the one found in Cameron’s cabin.</p><p>“Whose bags are these?”</p><p>Felicity swallowed convulsively.</p><p>“I—”</p><p>“These are yours, aren’t they Felicity,” said Robin gently. “Just like the drugs in Cameron’s cabin are yours.” Felicity gave a great, heaving snort, and began to cry.</p><p>“I - I - I didn’t mean to <em>kill</em> Chloe!” she wailed, and in the wake of Robin’s surge of triumph, there was a feeling of sadness. The horrible trail of pain that death left in its wake.</p><p>Tears were running steadily down Felicity’s face as she began to speak.</p><p>“You don’t understand what it’s like, to live in that house all day, shut in with that horrid old woman and her pets.”</p><p>Robin knew that at this point, the best tactic was to sit and listen. Felicity, like most criminals caught and stuck in the corner, would now be eager to unload the whole story.</p><p>“I never thought I’d be in my forties, babysitting a - a - <em>parrot</em>,” sniffled Felicity, wiping tears away with a bitter laugh.</p><p>“It’s my cousin, you see, who’s something of a family black sheep. He started coming to family dinners and events with this real flash car, smart designer clothes, the whole deal. We’ve always got along, since we were kids, and one night he tells me that it’s not his marketing job that makes him money, it’s this other deal he has going.”</p><p>Felicity reached to the side, and pulled a tissue from a box sitting on the dresser, and blew her nose.</p><p>“And I just thought - why not? I’ve no partner, no kids, no career, spending my days catering to the needs of a bird. What have I got to lose? I’ll make some real money and finally be free and independent.”</p><p>She sniffed, and hiccuped.</p><p>“And it worked. I thought it’d be glamorous, and dangerous, but—” she gave Robin a bitter smile.</p><p>“People don’t look twice at a frumpy woman. And Gwendoline travels everywhere; it was such an easy fit for me to move the drugs at the same time.”</p><p>“Charlie was the code name,” continued Felicity, rubbing at her eyes.</p><p>“I’m always supposed to make one call, just to confirm that everything is set, you know. The night of the murder mystery, I knew our signal had been spotty all night and that we were about to lose it entirely, so I stole a moment to come back to the cabin and make the call.”</p><p>The pieces of the night were coming together like a puzzle in Robin’s brain.</p><p>“And Chloe overheard you.”</p><p>Felicity nodded. “There really wasn't much signal in here by then, but I managed to find a little in the hallway. I didn’t see her come into the carriage, I was just in the corridor. She caught me right in the middle of the call, and when I said it was about Charlie - that was our codename, seemed innocent enough when it was the dog’s name too - Sir Hugo started squawking. So I had to hang up, and that’s when I looked up and saw her. Chloe backed right out again, but I knew she’d overheard me. I couldn’t trust her not to mention it.”</p><p>“I followed her, and saw her texting something. I panicked. I didn’t want to go to jail, not when I’d been saving for months and months for my freedom.”</p><p>Felicity gave a noisy gulp, and fresh tears started up again.</p><p>“All I wanted was her mobile. I kept telling her that’s all I wanted. I argued with her all the way back to her cabin - she was trying to get away from me, I think, but all I wanted was for her to hand over the mobile and delete the text. But it was too late, she kept saying. She’d already sent it.”</p><p>Felicity looked up at Robin as she said this, and for the first time, Robin saw a flash of something ugly and angry in the mild woman’s eyes.</p><p>“She wouldn’t give me her phone. I tried to grab it, and she fell, and I pinned her, and she just wouldn’t stop squirming around.”</p><p>A horrible, bleak light gleamed in Felicity’s eyes.</p><p>“I never meant to kill her. I was just so scared of being found out, and her pillow was right there-”</p><p>Robin couldn’t stop herself from giving an inward shudder.</p><p>“And when she didn’t move, I thought she’d just - she’d passed out, I thought.”</p><p>The cabin fell silent again as Felicity dissolved into tears again.</p><p>“You took her mobile.”</p><p>Felicity nodded helplessly.</p><p>“I didn’t know her passcode, though, so I couldn’t open the screen to find her texts. And then the lights went out, and Chloe wasn’t waking up, and I knew Gwendoline would be back soon, so I just came back to the cabin.”</p><p>“May I have it?”</p><p>Felicity nodded wordlessly and, sniffing, moved back to the cupboard that had contained her toiletry bags. She reached deep in, and for a moment Robin felt a frisson of alarm, but all Felicity produced was the missing phone, sleek and smooth in a pink case with a horse design on the back. She handed it over, and sat back down and looked at her hands twisted in her lap. Robin slipped the phone into her pocket and wondered where to go from here. Felicity wiped her eyes.</p><p>The sound of a gruff throat being cleared startled them; Robin looked up to see Strike framed in the doorway, Gwendoline behind him with her mouth shaped like an O. The two older ladies stared at one another for a long moment, but Robin only had eyes for her big partner. His brow was raised in a question, and she gave a brief nod.</p><p>“Right,” Strike said, and Robin took comfort from his voice of authority. “We’ll need to—”</p><p>He was interrupted by a distant whistle that made them all turn their heads.</p><p>“The rescue train is here,” Robin said.</p><p>Strike nodded. “They’ll soon have us dug out,” he replied. “And we’ll be able to get to our new destination.” His eyes raked across Felicity, still sat miserably staring at her hands. “I guess we’d better find some alternative accommodation for our suspect here.”</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. All Clear</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The rest of the day passed in a blur. Robin could scarcely keep up. Simon and David, the engineer and driver, went to meet the rescue train. Together with the arriving team and the various equipment they’d brought, they set to work digging the <em>Lady Amelia</em> out of the banked snow. The drift was soon cleared, and then the task was to clear any blockages and restart the engine. The two trains would travel in convoy to the next station, which was only a couple of hours away now the weather and the line were clear.</p><p>A cabin was found for Felicity, and Strike and Waugh took turns keeping an eye on the door - not that it was likely to be needed, Strike said, but it made sense to keep an eye on her. Gwendoline was most put out to lose her helper, but Jenny fussed around and cooed over the bird and smoothed more than one set of ruffled feathers. Robin suspected the older lady was more upset than she was letting on. She seemed to have been genuinely unaware of Felicity’s sideline, and upset that her companionship might be viewed as anything other than the gracefully bestowed largesse she evidently saw it as.</p><p>When not watching Felicity, Waugh traversed the train, organising a last, late lunch or early dinner for the passengers and explaining to them all that the train would be ending its journey that day. Everyone was busy packing and talking, waiting for signal to be restored so that they could ring ahead and plan onward travel. Waugh advised everyone to keep receipts and let him know how he could reimburse them for their expense in getting to Venice by other routes.</p><p>In her cabin, packing her things into her case, Robin felt a pang of sadness. This trip had turned out to be anything but the way she had envisioned it, and yet there had been moments she had loved, moments before it had suddenly turned into a murder investigation that she would always treasure. She remembered the murder mystery evening, dressed up and flirting with Strike, the heady possibilities. She remembered kissing him, their mutual desire, the surety she’d had that this was their future, now - a new phase of their relationship that they’d been skirting around for so long.</p><p>He was different now, her partner. Focused on tying up loose ends. He’d purloined a pad of paper from Waugh’s office and had set himself up in the corridor outside Felicity’s room with a small folding chair and table that he dwarfed with his huge frame. He had borrowed Robin’s notes and was writing up the case for the local police, his brow furrowed as he worked, utterly concentrating. It made sense for him to do it, she knew - he was more experienced at laying a case out officially than she was, having only learned the methods they used at the office. She stopped by occasionally to add her thoughts, and he nodded and wrote on. The flirting, the warm looks, the hand-holding, were all gone. He was in full professional mode.</p><p>Robin sighed and closed her suitcase. She was hopeful they would get a flight out tonight and get back to London. Maybe there, back in familiar surroundings, they would finally have time to work out what they would be to one another from now on.</p><p>The engine had been idling for some time now while Simon and David performed the checks. As Robin zipped her case closed, there was a small bang and a lurch, and distant cheers echoed up and down the carriages. They were on the move again.</p><p>The late afternoon meal was quiet. Gary and Waugh served soup and fresh baked bread, sandwiches and pastries, tea and coffee. It was simple but filling. Waugh waited tables, Jenny helped Gwendoline with Sir Hugo, and Robin sat with the Herberts. Gossip abounded, but they ignored it. Robin was sure that it was only the absence of Strike, who was still working and watching Felicity’s cabin, that stopped Mary from approaching them to tell them that they had it all wrong and her theories were in fact correct. The other passengers kept themselves to themselves, even Mr Jones quiet for once, and Cameron sat alone. He carefully avoided Robin’s gaze, and she couldn’t blame him. Strike had made no secret of his suspicions.</p><p>After the meal, Waugh said a few words - a goodbye, thanking them all for taking part in the <em>Lady Amelia</em>’s maiden voyage and apologising for the unexpected turn things had taken. He hoped that they’d consider rebooking when the paperwork was over. Robin looked around the cabin, wondering how many of her fellow passengers would rebook. Wondering if she and Strike might take such a trip again one day.</p><p>There wasn’t much of the journey left. They had descended steeply during the meal; houses and then villages started to be seen from the windows, and then someone exclaimed that the mobile signal was back. People started to look up hotels and flights, hunt out numbers to make bookings.</p><p>“There’s a flight from Turin back to London tonight,” Ilsa said, thumbing through her phone. She glanced up at Robin. “Want me to book for all of us?”</p><p>Robin hesitated. “I don’t know,” she replied. “Cormoran is writing up the case for the police, but we might be needed to give statements and so on? We all might, I suppose.”</p><p>Ilsa shrugged. “As long as Felicity confesses, I don’t see why they’d need the rest of us,” she said. “Gwendoline, maybe, to prove she’s not a suspect.”</p><p>Robin nodded. “You go ahead and book for yourselves,” she said. “I’ll stick with Comoran. We might end up on the same flight, but he’ll probably want to talk to the police before he decides.”</p><p>“Right you are,” Ilsa replied. “I’m going to grab a couple of seats before it fills up. Nick, have you got our passports? I’ll need the numbers.”</p><p>“They’re in the cabin,” her husband told her, and the Herberts stood and drifted away, their minds already on practical arrangements and home.</p><p>Robin sat and gazed out of the window at town suburbs now, and finished her almost-cold coffee. Waugh announced their imminent arrival, and she sighed a little, set down her cup and went to fetch her case.</p><p> </p><p>*****</p><p> </p><p>“We’ll be off, then,” Nick told Robin, picking up the handle of his suitcase while Ilsa shrugged her jacket on. “You’ll be all right?”</p><p>Robin glanced up at him and nodded. She and the Herberts and Waugh had been sat in the lounge of the main hotel in their final destination town for a couple of hours, sipping coffee and then eventually gin and tonics, their cases lined up next to their circle of easy chairs. The local police had met the train, spoken to Waugh and Strike, arrested Felicity, and then Strike had gone with them to the police station with his notes while Waugh and Gary had helped the other passengers disembark and seen them on their way. Waugh had submitted a full passenger manifesto to the police, and they were happy to do any following up later.</p><p>There had been no word from Strike, and the taxi the Herberts had booked to take them on to Turin was waiting; there was no reason for them to delay.</p><p>“You go,” Robin told them. “We might catch you up, or we might get a later flight. I’ll give you a shout when we’re back in London.”</p><p>Nick nodded, and Ilsa bent to kiss Robin’s cheek. “See you soon,” she replied. “Sorry the trip didn’t turn out the way you planned,” she added to Waugh, who shrugged resignedly.</p><p>With a flurry of goodbyes, the Herberts left, just as Strike entered the hotel lobby from the far side, making Robin’s heart rate jump. He looked tired, and was limping a little. She watched him as he greeted his old friends, shook hands with Nick, kissed Ilsa, bade them goodbye. He moved to the front desk, and the receptionist pointed him towards the lounge; he raised a hand in greeting and Robin waved back.</p><p>“I guess I’d better get going too,” Waugh said, standing and looking over to where Strike stood talking to the concierge. “We’re going to dock here tonight, probably sleep on the train if the station will let us. Stock up on supplies tomorrow while the police have a look at the scene, then head back to London ourselves. Think we’ll stick to the straightest route.” He grinned.</p><p>Robin laughed. At least Waugh didn’t seem too downhearted about the whole thing. “How about you and Gary?” she asked softly.</p><p>Waugh sighed. “We’ll work on it,” he replied. “We’ve been mates for years, and he knows I’m sorry and it wasn’t personal. We all make mistakes, and this was a big one. But I hope he can still work with me, we’re a good team.”</p><p>“I’m sorry we didn’t work out who was writing the letters,” Robin said, as Strike appeared at Waugh’s side, a pint of beer in his hand.</p><p>“We did,” he said in his deep baritone, setting his pint down and dropping into an easy chair with a sigh of relief. “God, my knee hurts.”</p><p>Robin stared at him. “We did?”</p><p>“It was Gary, warning you off Chloe,” Strike replied, glancing up at Waugh. “It came to me in a flash while I was writing up the notes and wondering where the letters fit in, so I grabbed him as he went past and he admitted it.”</p><p>Waugh nodded. “We have a lot of talking to do on the way back,” he said wryly. “I might add a bottle of Scotch to the shopping list.”</p><p>Strike grinned. “Not a bad idea.”</p><p>“Right, I’ll be off, then.” Waugh hesitated. “Thanks, guys,” he said, leaning to shake Strike’s hand and smiling across at Robin. “I admit I was sceptical about you going all Poirot on us—” he grinned at Strike “—but it’s saved us a whole lot of time and faffing now. We’re free to go. Cheers.”</p><p>Strike raised his pint, and Robin tilted her almost-finished gin and tonic, and they watched as Waugh left, hands in pockets. All his belongings were still aboard the <em>Lady Amelia</em>.</p><p>Strike glanced around, spotted an ashtray and reached to pull it closer to him. “Hooray for indoor smoking,” he said, pulling his cigarettes from his pocket and lighting one.</p><p>Robin smiled softly. “How did it go with the police?”</p><p>He nodded. “Good, yeah. I explained the whole thing. They’ve got the drugs. Coroner will examine Chloe but I’m sure it’ll all check out as we said. They’ve kept my notes.”</p><p>He took a deep draught of his pint. “God, that’s good stuff.” He grinned. “Yeah, they rang ahead to Venice, found the person Felicity was supposed to hand the drugs to, with her messages on his phone. He’s been arrested too. So I don’t think we’ll get any more comeback. They’ve got our numbers just in case.”</p><p>“So we’re done?”</p><p>“Yup.” Strike sat back, taking a long drag on his cigarette, exhaling smoke in a cloud. “All finished. Another case done and dusted. Well, two, really. Not bad for a working holiday.”</p><p>Robin smiled and sipped her drink, eyeing him over the rim of her glass. He was devastatingly attractive like this, rumpled but relaxed, cheerful now the case was over, sleeves rolled up and a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other.</p><p>He caught her eye and grinned, and leaned to stub his cigarette out in the ashtray. Next to them, their cases sat neatly, side by side.</p><p>Robin pulled her attention away from Strike’s strong forearms and picked up her phone. “You enjoy your pint,” she said. “I’ll try and get us a flight, assuming we’re free to go?” She looked up at him, phone in hand.</p><p>Strike hesitated, watching her. “Actually—”</p><p>“Oh, will we need to give more statements?”</p><p>A soft smile played around the edges of his mouth.  “No, the police are done with us,” he replied. “I just...”</p><p>He trailed off, and Robin, confused, gave him a questioning look.</p><p>Strike leaned back a little and dug his hand into his pocket. He extracted a plastic card, and the look he gave her was half boyish uncertainty and half confident smile, his mouth quirking up a little on one side but his dark eyes watching hers carefully for clues as he slid the card across the lounge coffee table towards her. His gaze held a question that made her stomach swoop.</p><p>Robin looked down at the card.</p><p>It was a room key.</p><p> </p>
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<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Blowing off Steam</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Robin exited the lift and stepped out into a lush, carpeted hallway. Through the large bay window a few feet to her right, the sun was setting over the rooftops of the Piazza Castello, setting the sky ablaze with deep pink and orange. </p><p>She clutched the small plastic card in her hand, its smooth edges digging into her palm, and tried to get a handle on the tumult of feelings currently running riot in her stomach. She was nervous. This room key was an invitation, not just to spend the night with Strike, but to move forward into the unknown. Together. </p><p>She was ready. She had been for months. Even years, really. But now that the moment was suddenly, definitively here, she was overcome with a mix of euphoria and panic. This was no stolen kiss in the dark, in costume. This wasn’t a passionate exchange in the heat of the moment. </p><p>This was a declaration, illuminated in broad daylight. This was Robin saying, <i>“I want you, not only tonight, but for everything that follows after.”</i></p><p>She walked down the quiet hallway and stopped at room 12. Strike, presumably, was in the room already. He had slid the room key across the table to her, and after her hand had taken it and placed it in her own pocket, he had mentioned, quite casually, that he would have her suitcases sent up with his. She had nodded, said she wanted to freshen up in the loo, and they had exchanged a goodbye bordering on formal. </p><p>Robin took a deep breath, and before she could overthink it, slid the room key into the lock, and the door clicked. She pushed on the handle and walked into the room. Strike was standing by the window, and for a split second, she had an impression of him in delicious, sunlit profile: tall and strong, his boxer’s nose giving character to his shadowed face, shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow, the hair on his forearms lit by the painted sky behind him. </p><p>He turned, giving her a wide open smile that just about took her breath away. And before she could quite recover it, he had crossed the room in a few single strides, and had her in his arms. </p><p>“Hiya,” said Robin, smiling up at him, as his hands settled on her hips.</p><p>“Hi,” he replied, still grinning, his dark eyes searching hers. “I’ve been waiting up here, wondering whether giving you that key was too much, and thinking maybe I’d overplayed my hand, and-”</p><p>Robin stood on her tiptoes and pressed her lips softly to his. She could still feel the sketch of his smile beneath hers, and then they were kissing properly, her mouth opening to his as he swept his tongue inside, stroking against hers, and his hands travelled lower, his large palms squeezing the curve of her bottom, kneading. Robin reached up and threaded her fingers into his hair with blissful abandon, losing herself in this moment, in him. </p><p>They broke the kiss, and Robin tugged her blouse up and over her head at the same time that Strike unbuttoned the rest of his shirt and tossed it to one side, revealing his large, solid torso with a healthy amount of chest hair. Robin’s hands went immediately to it, revelling in the soft, springy feel of it, the warm skin beneath, and his smile turned slightly roguish. HIs eyes were roaming her body freely, drinking her in. Robin had never felt more exposed, or more desired, than she was just now, standing before Strike with all that hunger and adoration written so clearly across his face. Then he was kissing her again, and it was harder and hotter than the last. </p><p>Warmth was building as Strike’s hands roamed her body; he was lighting her up with his touch. Following the dip at her waist, then his fingertips brushed up her arms, then his hand was cupping the back of her head, then sliding back down and settling between her legs, where heat bloomed in a glorious rush. Robin ground her hips into his touch, seeking more, at the same time that his other hand brushed teasingly across a peaked nipple. </p><p>She gasped, a desperate, greedy gulp of air, and suddenly desire was the only thing she could think of, it was rocketing through her as Strike walked them backwards, Robin felt the back of her legs hit the edge of the bed and then she let herself fall, gave herself over to instinct and need and Strike. She lay back, reaching for him as he shifted himself so that he was lying next to her, on his side, and looked down, his dark eyes full of singular focus, all on her. </p><p>His hand rested on her stomach, his fingers splayed warm against her bare skin. Robin blushed under his gaze, and she let out a giggle, feeling slightly nervous again. He let out a soft, low laugh. </p><p>“What is it?”</p><p>His hand travelled lower, undoing the top button of her jeans as he bent his head and kissed her collarbone. Robin bit her lip, torn between answering him and the sudden throb of pleasure that pulsed through her as his hand stroked beneath the band of her underwear, his thumb found her clit and pressed gently against it. </p><p>She let out an undignified sound, although it was cut off as his thumb began moving in slow, unhurried circles. </p><p>“It’s just-” she breathed out, her hips trying to arch up, seeking more of his touch, but his other hand was steady on her waist, keeping her pinned. He gave her a maddening smile. </p><p>“It’s just what?”</p><p>“Just that - <i>oh</i> - just -” Robin shifted her legs together, her breath catching as he sped up the pace. </p><p>Heat was blossoming outwards from her core, spreading in building, demanding ripples. She stopped caring about the intensity of his focus, or her own reactions, and abandoned herself to it. Strike’s hand stayed firm at her hip as his other kept going, and Robin came, her eyes squeezing shut and toes curling as the delicious pressure released. She sank back into the mattress, loose and relaxed, riding a long wave of pleasure. </p><p>She opened her eyes to see Strike watching her. She smiled softly at him, then, gathering her dreamy, scattered thoughts, said, </p><p>“It’s just that it hit me, with you looking at me like that, that it’s real, between us.”</p><p>He bent his head and kissed her gently, then looked right into her eyes. </p><p>“Yeah. It’s real.”</p><p>Robin reached for him again, and this time they were slower. </p><p>He leaned back, his hand on her hip. </p><p>“I’ve got-”</p><p>“On the pill,” she replied, and impatiently pulled him down to her again. They luxuriated in each other; Strike kissed his way down her stomach and all the way back up again before he eased her jeans off, pulling them slowly down as his hands coasted leisurely down her thighs and calves. Then he lay back next to her and kissed her again, kissed her until she was melting into him without thinking. His hands smoothed down her body and traced along curves, and the deep, delicious embers of warmth in her belly began to build back into a fire of need. She pushed on his chest gently, forcing him to lie on his back. </p><p>Strike’s eyes tracked her as she tugged his belt, trousers and boxers off, teasing him with deliberate slowness. He pressed his lips together, grunting as her hands explored the strong thigh muscles, then, in a moment of pure daring, stroked along his rock-hard erection. She delighted in the primal groan that he let loose, a shiver running through his body. Encouraged, she kept going, and he rocked his hips up into her palms.</p><p>“Robin,” he said, his voice breaking slightly, and Robin, as desperate for him as he was for her, straddled him, settling herself slowly down onto him. </p><p>Strike made a deep, guttural noise, his eyes closing as she sank all the way down, until he was buried completely inside her. He was big, and Robin paused, adjusting to the sensation of being pleasantly full. Her heartbeat was drumming an eager, ecstatic beat that matched Strike’s pulse, the one she could feel deep inside.</p><p>She shifted her hips experimentally and a warm wave of pleasure overtook her. She let out a small moan and began to move. He opened his eyes, holding hers as they caught a steady rhythm, and Robin couldn’t believe they were here, couldn’t believe how good and right it felt. They fit so well together, and she revelled in the way she could make this big man grit his teeth and swallow and curse, his fists clenching the sheets, marvelled at the way she could take him to the edge of losing a control she had never seen him lose before, not like this, not because of her.</p><p>“Robin,” he ground out, his hands at her waist, “Jesus, I’m going to-”</p><p>“Me too,” she urged, her hips going faster as the pleasure built again, too overcome to say anything else. “Me too.” </p><p>He bucked up once, twice, erratically before he let go with a bark of an exclamation, gripping her hips hard. Robin felt her own, internal wave crest and break, and followed him, riding him until his movements slowed, feeling him pulse and spend himself, letting herself collapse forward onto his chest, where they lay together in a sticky haze of satisfaction, his cock twitching inside her. </p><p>She snuggled further into him, though they were both still sweaty, and felt his fingers brush a light trail up and down her spine. </p><p>“I reckon a good long nap, then maybe dinner at some cafe somewhere?” His deep voice was slow and sleepy. </p><p>“With lots of wine and pasta,” murmured Robin. </p><p>“Sounds great. Maybe a few days of that.”</p><p>“Maybe a week.”</p><p>“And then back home.”</p><p>“Cormoran,” said Robin, lifting her head enough to meet his eyes and grin at him. “I am home.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. Terminus</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Not quite the same, is it?” Strike murmured into the back of her hair.</p>
<p>Robin stretched, waking slowly, conscious of the weight of his arm anchored around her, the press of his naked body against the length of hers, his chest against her back.</p>
<p>“What’s not the same?”</p>
<p>“Waking up in a tiny attic flat in London as opposed to a sumptuous hotel room in Italy.”</p>
<p>Robin smiled, turning her head to meet his lips against her cheek. “I don’t mind where we wake up. What time is it?”</p>
<p>Strike sighed. “A bit after eight.”</p>
<p>Robin nuzzled against him as he kissed her cheek and the side of her head, and gave a deep sigh of satisfaction. She tugged his arm tighter around her and lay, warm and cocooned. They didn’t have long, then, before the bubble they’d been living in for the past few days burst and normal life resumed. Pat would be arriving promptly at a quarter to nine, as she always did, to make a round of tea and get herself set up and settled at her desk by nine.</p>
<p>Strike’s arm tightened around her. “I’ve had a lovely few days.” His voice was a deep rumble in his chest that she felt echo through her own ribcage as well.</p>
<p>“Me too.” It had been magical. They’d explored the little town they found themselves in, strolling quiet streets, dining at tiny restaurants, eating copious quantities of delicious local pasta washed down with red wine, and retiring back to their hotel room to continue getting to know one another in ways Robin could only have dreamed of before.</p>
<p>Reality must reassert itself, though. She sighed a little again, this time with resignation. “Do you want me to go?”</p>
<p>She could hear the puzzlement in his voice. “Go where?” </p>
<p>Robin rolled onto her back, wriggling to fit, looking up at Strike as he propped himself on one elbow, his other hand still resting on her waist. “Well, you know. Out. So I can arrive at work from downstairs rather than upstairs. I could go and have a coffee somewhere.”</p>
<p>Strike shrugged. “Seems like a hassle. Do you want to do that?”</p>
<p>Robin smiled. “We work with detectives,” she said ruefully. “I don’t think we have much hope of keeping it a secret anyway. And I think Ilsa knows.”</p>
<p>Strike grinned. “Does she now?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, she texted on Saturday to see if I wanted to meet for coffee, and I had to admit we were still in Italy. She asked if we were still sorting out the case, and when I said no she just sent me a winking emoji and didn’t text again.” Robin chuckled, and Strike laughed too.</p>
<p>“Well, it’s curry night next weekend. So they were going to know soon enough anyway.”</p>
<p>Robin gazed up at him, stubbled and wild of hair, bed-rumpled and gorgeous and all hers. “And the staff?”</p>
<p>Strike grinned. “Well, if I just distract you for half an hour, that’ll kind of solve itself, don’t you think?”</p>
<p>“You don’t mind them knowing, then?”</p>
<p>He shrugged. “I don’t care either way. It’s not really anyone’s business except ours, but I’m not going to hide it. We’re too old for all that nonsense.”</p>
<p>Robin snorted. “Speak for yourself.”</p>
<p>Strike grinned again. “I was. But you know what I mean.”</p>
<p>Her smile was soft. “Yeah. So we’re telling people?”</p>
<p>He shrugged. “Don’t see why not. They’ll find out anyway - I live above the office.” He bent his head to kiss her, slow and lingering, then drew back. “We’ve got half an hour,” he murmured.</p>
<p>“In which I have to shower and sort my hair out,” Robin replied firmly, and giggled as he pouted at her. “Save it for later. You can come round to mine tonight. I need to get some groceries. I’ll cook.”</p>
<p>Strike sighed and rolled onto his back, stretching. “Okay. But I can’t promise I won’t flirt with you in the office.”</p>
<p>Robin giggled, pulling herself across him to climb over him and out of bed. “Pat won’t approve.”</p>
<p>Strike seized her waist and pulled her close for another kiss, wrapping his arm around her. “Pat can disapprove all she likes. We make the rules.”</p>
<p>“We do have to behave with a <em> little </em> decorum,” Robin told him, kissing him firmly and then wriggling free and clambering out of bed.</p>
<p>“Only if they’re looking,” he retorted, and she threw him a cheeky glance over her shoulder as she headed into the tiny bathroom.</p>
<p>Happiness fizzed warm in Robin’s veins as she showered. She was deeply relaxed, her body replete with a gentle, satisfied ache from night after night in Strike’s arms. Despite being a stone heavier than she’d been at her ill-fated wedding, she felt sexier than she ever had in her life, curvy and sensuous under the worshipful attentions of her big partner.</p>
<p>Partner in all senses, now. She gazed at herself in Strike’s shaving mirror as she dried and brushed her hair, easing the tangles free. She looked different. Carefree, happy. She grinned. <em> Well-fucked</em>, Vanessa would say. Her cheeks pink, she wrapped herself in a towel and went to get dressed, and Strike took her place in the shower.</p>
<p>In the end, there was no telling of their colleagues that needed doing. As they left the flat and headed down to the landing, Robin could hear Pat and Barclay chatting as they climbed the stairs. She had to resist a sudden urge to dash back up to the flat and hide. What would she do? It would still be clear from the outer office and Pat’s vantage point that she was coming down to work, not up, no matter how long she left it. So she lifted her chin, willed her cheeks not to redden and brazened it out, glad that Strike was ahead of her. Their colleagues fell abruptly silent as the four met on the landing outside the office and Strike proceeded to unlock the door.</p>
<p>Pat recovered first. “How was the trip?”</p>
<p>Robin smiled at her gratefully. “Eventful,” she replied, and felt a small lurch of embarrassment as Barclay turned a snort into a cough behind her. “Someone was murdered.”</p>
<p>“Good Lord!” Pat stared at her in shock.</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Robin said grimly, as they all proceeded into the office. “So it became a bit of a working holiday after that.”</p>
<p>The tale of poor Chloe and the ensuing case carried them through tea-making and provided a welcome distraction; their colleagues seemed to forget about the obvious new relationship between their two bosses as the story unfolded. By the time they were all caught up, mugs of tea in hands, Robin sat on the sofa with hers and Pat at her desk, Strike leaning against the kitchen counter and Barclay loitering by the door, a normal atmosphere had resumed.</p>
<p>“So how have things been here?” Strike asked, glancing from Barclay to Pat and back again.</p>
<p>Barclay shrugged. “Same old,” he replied. “Lazy Nanny still isnae doing anything quite bad enough to get the sack, but I reckon it’s only a matter of time. Hutchins says that girl’s not been back at the cafe he’s watching, reckons she musta got another job.” Strike nodded.</p>
<p>“And we’ve had the usual enquiries,” Pat added, gesturing at her computer. “I’ve sent a couple of straightforward ones the rates and terms and conditions, but no-one’s come back yet.” She paused, her hand on the mouse, scrolling. “But there’s one I think you need to see. It only came in on Friday afternoon so I left it for you. I’ll forward it now you’re back.”</p>
<p>“What was it?” Robin asked, sipping her tea.</p>
<p>“Well,” Pat replied. “Remarkably similar to what you’ve just done, oddly enough. This woman wants to hire you, or rather him—” she nodded at Strike “—to accompany her on a trip. She’s being harassed by a former friend, and wants intelligence on the friend, leverage of some sort, to get her to back off. It’s about her husband, who was engaged to the friend before, apparently.”</p>
<p>Strike snorted a disbelieving laugh. “And let me guess, it’s a boat trip.”</p>
<p>Pat stared at him. “It is, actually. In Egypt.”</p>
<p>Robin froze, looking from one to the other. “You’re kidding?”</p>
<p>Pat’s mouth set in a stern line. “I don’t kid.”</p>
<p>Blinking, Robin looked at Strike, and he gazed back at her.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>THE END</p>
<p><br/>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>And that’s all, folks! Thank you for joining us on our ride. What started out as two similar but different ideas got woven into this fun Agatha Christie homage, and working with Vee has been a delight. Thank you for all the cheerleading, comments and kudos, we’ve had such fun with our murder mystery 😍</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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